


Crossroads

by ShiningDarkness



Category: Harry Potter - Fandom
Genre: Angst, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-15
Updated: 2011-01-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 24,521
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShiningDarkness/pseuds/ShiningDarkness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p><b>Well, I'm back with another story. The plot of this story came to me at a REALLY bad time, and I'm glad I was able to remember long enough to write it down. Unlike any other thing I've ever written, I actually know how I'm going to finish this. I don't know how long updates will take because school starts again in another two weeks (damn). And yes, the idea was helped by the poem of Robert Frost.</b></p>
    </blockquote>





	1. A Glint Of Darkness

**Author's Note:**

> **Well, I'm back with another story. The plot of this story came to me at a REALLY bad time, and I'm glad I was able to remember long enough to write it down. Unlike any other thing I've ever written, I actually know how I'm going to finish this. I don't know how long updates will take because school starts again in another two weeks (damn). And yes, the idea was helped by the poem of Robert Frost.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Thank you for the wonderful reviews! I really, really appreciate them. Anyway, Harry doesn't know it yet but his life just gets better and better. Really. No sarcasm intended.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter because, if I did, there would be far more slash.**

 **Crossroads**

" _Voldemort! He's back! He's… He's back." Harry sobbed, sorrow and pain still fresh from his Godfather's death. Fudge looked at him in anger with a small spark of pity._

" _He can't be, Potter. He died. There was no one here." He said, and the Potter boy started at him with a hate-filled gaze. The minister took a step back, only having ever once seen that look before._

" _He came back… It's his fault Sirius is dead!" Water and scorch marks surrounded them. The light's reflection flew off them in all angles. Instead of looking like it's usual stunning effect, the reflections looked deadly. Little shards still hailed occasionally as the chamber was cleaned up._

" _Harry… my boy… I'm sorry, but tonight I didn't fight Voldemort. He may have been here at one stage, but I didn't see him." Dumbledore cut in, losing the spark that usually graced his eyes. Harry would do anything to see that spark again, or at least a sign of the grandfatherly Dumbledore, and not the serious impostor that stood before him. He heaved again, before attempting to stand._

The memory flickered out, and Harry was glad to be rid of it. Hours, had that one, dark memory haunted him. He still felt pain in his chest when he remembered the stony look on Dumbledore's face. Stony and thoughtful…

 _And silent._

The silence was haunting, as Harry came to know, haunting and eerie. It kept him up to the inane hours that he considered the morning, recalling his memories and playing them over and over in his mind.

For hours at a time, he would remain protected and untouched until it would hit him. _Silence._ Such a lusted condition… one could truly understand the slow torture of silence when placed in Harry's position, where he would do anything for noise.

Harry had grown up in a house filled with noise the sudden and dramatic change overwhelmed him. Sometimes, when he couldn't cope with the silence, he would pull the taps on and tap noises on the desk or the walls. Though it didn't satisfy his need for noise, it beat the unearthly silence that cradled him.

The lights were also a problem, not because they were too bright, but because they looked pale and sickly. They had a low and temperamental tone that drove Harry to the borders of discomfort. When the lights came to much to bear, he covered his eyes under the sheets and slept peacefully with the shadows holding him. In those shadows, he found a small sense of peace he hadn't felt for a long time.

But even with way's to confront the light and silence, the lack of noise and darkness made him feel like he was truly loosing his mind. He knew it was only a matter of time before things got worse, and, as the silence and light gripped him increasingly, it was bound to be soon. It seemed, in a morbid way, like a pendulum, swinging, swaying, dancing and lowering. Almost touching at less than a moment away. He wished it would lift of fall, instead of it's patient sway instead of increasing his sense of foreboding and isolation.

 _Isolation_. He understood the saying now. For the first real time in his life, Harry was truly isolated. Not a soul nor a sound could penetrate his cell. Nothing existed within it and, to Harry, nothing existed outside of it. It was an unmarked cage of what Harry could describe as ice. Cold, silent and haunting.

The constant strain on his mental health didn't deter him from feeling excitement, joy and worry when he received letters, mainly from Ron and Hermione now. Every new letter he received, however, set him further and further on edge. Sirius had not been mentioned once, and Harry could only guess they were withholding something from him. Just like his fifth year, Harry was being treated as some sort of porcelain monument. Breakable at words and actions, cursed to live in ignorance.

Some days, when he received letters, it filled him with unexplainable anger and sadness. Every letter he sent, he asked for news about Voldemort, but he never received any information back. Harry knew Voldemort hadn't stayed completely out of sight, his scar burned a little too much some days, and on those days he felt a little more anger and a little more hatred than he was used to.

His most recent letter, from both Ron and Hermione combined, did nothing to help his anguish. They had both hoped he was well, while promising the arrangement wasn't permanent, and there was still no sign of Voldemort. Hermione and Ron had written they were well, and they had both made prefects. They also told him that Dumbledore was taking DADA classes while they searched for a replacement. Harry had had a good laugh while he imagined Dumbledore teaching the cursed position. He highly doubted anything would happen to elderly man, though.

He rested his hands under his head, half relaxing on his bed. His unease had doubled in the last few days, leading up to now. He tried not to dwell on the feeling, but with so little do to it was hard to ignore. It was like the silence and the light, a constant shadow that grew and twisted, pulling everything around it into darkness. And, for Harry, darkness would be good. He wanted to _feel_ the inexplicable rush of emotions that overwhelmed the darkness. Pain and danger and adventure - he _needed_ it. One could say he lived for it, if they knew him well enough.

A polite cough alerted Harry of the presence in the room. He took his time in looking up, used to the small noises his mind conjured during his loneliness. What he wasn't expecting, however, was the man that stood there. Robed in a fine dark material with his long, pale fingers clutching his wand stood Voldemort, an evil sneer upon his reptilian face. Harry jumped, and lunged for a book on the desk side tale.

" _Insurgo_!" He hissed, and Harry felt his body rise into the air. He thrashed about, loosely aiming kicks in the direction Voldemort stood but mostly trying to grip onto something. He heard the cold, amused laugh and immediately stopped struggling.

"What do _you_ want." He growled.

Voldemort said nothing for a moment, but his face twisted into what Harry would perceive as a murderous look. Harry glared back, but his glare was no where near as ferocious and malicious as the one Voldemort wore.

"I'm not going to _kill_ you, if that's what you're thinking." He said. Harry laughed humourlessly, even more so when Voldemort's eyes flashed a deeper shade of crimson.

"Yeah, right. Like you haven't ever tried to kill me." He laughed again, this time bitterly. Harry almost feared it, the laughter reflected the pent up rage and bitterness and insanity that haunted him since he'd arrived. No, before that, when Sirius died.

"You are a foolish boy, Harry Potter." He said, smirking at Harry's obvious thoughts. Harry attempted another lunge at the man, but his body didn't shift another inch. Voldemort lifted his wand, a foreboding grin on his pale face. He concentrated for a moment before speaking.

" _Crucio_." He hissed, and Harry's entire body shuddered and with spasms controlling each of his limbs. Harry screamed with a force that felt like his throat was shredding, while his lungs pounded furiously in his chest. His vision blurred and darkened, and he felt the curse lifting as a voice - his voice - screamed. After a long moment, Voldemort lifted the curse and Harry heaved with uncaught breath. Voldemort's wanly figure moved closer, and Harry moved as far backwards as he could, fully aware of the pulled muscles and forming welts.

"D-don't." Harry managed to force out through his chattering teeth.

"Why ever not?" Voldemort grinned maliciously, thoroughly enjoying the young boy's pain.

"Want…. To live!" He grunted out, feeling his head swarming. He heard a chuckle and footsteps when his vision flickered out. Hands were touching him, pulling him, trapping him and Harry did all he could think of at the time. He lashed out. Numerous times his fist connected with flesh, but nothing was enough to stop the invasion. A short sounded, possibly from himself, possibly from another, and then there was nothing.

The next thing he saw was a unmarked white ceiling. His eyes followed an invisible line across and, seeing the room void of life, gave a sign. No Voldemort and no Death Eaters - it was good enough for Harry. He tried hesitantly sitting, but his arms had been tightly bound to his body, limiting his movements to the point the could only roll. Harry shifted into a more comfortable position, and took notice of the small cuts and welts across his skin.

"Good to see you're awake, Mr Potter." A man, presumably in his late fifties, said. He was a rather stocky man, in Harry's opinion, much alike his uncle. The man ran a hand through his greying hair, and muttered a spell to release. He held out a glass a comfortable distance away. Hesitantly, Harry reached out, flinching at the burn in his muscles, and took the glass.

"I want to ask you a few questions. Please, take a drink. You'll find it highly refreshing." He said, with a small glint of laughter in his beady eyes. Harry had already guessed the water had something in it, and it was confirmed when the man smirked. Harry, however, could not deny the need for water. His throat throbbed and ached, feeling raw. With every breath, it felt like something was scraping along his man conjured up a chair as Harry drank the water, and he was happy to notice the pain in his throat was somewhat weaker as he felt the water run down it. The man waited patiently, and Harry grinned into the glass, knowing he could drag a small glass of water out for a long time. After living with the Dursley's, Harry had become used to the lack of food and water. There were times, sitting in his small cupboard bedroom, where he would do his best to live off a single small meal for a few days.

"Your name is Harry James Potter, is it not?" He asked as Harry finally finished.

"Yeah." Harry rasped, hating the sore feeling when the vibrations from the words scraped along his throat. He didn't want to talk. It hurt far too much.

"What happened?" He asked curiously. Harry frowned.

"Voldemort. In…. my cell… used -"

"The Cruciatus Curse." He cut in. Harry frowned.

"Did you… catch Him?" Harry croaked. The man took his turn to frown.

"No one was there, Mr Potter." Harry saw red. It took him a simple moment to forget his pain and forget his surrounding and just explode.

"WHAT TO YOU _MEAN_ NO ONE WAS THERE! _HE WAS THERE, AND I ALMOST DIED. HOW COULD YOU NOT SEE HIM!"_ He roared, sending the stocky man into a coughing fit of shock. Harry was heaving after, seeing an intense burn within his throat, spreading like fire.

"Mr Potter, that is no way to behave. You are lucky you are not dead." He said carefully, fearing another explosion. Harry muttered to himself about the idiots of the Wizarding World for not being muggle's, but didn't push it.

"Well, Mr Potter, would you like to know what happened?" He asked. Harry nodded, his throat hurting even more than usual.

"The Cruciatus Curse was used, but not by You-Know-Who. YOU used a wanless Cruciatus Curse on yourself while you were hallucinating about You-Know-Who." Harry was careful to show no emotion, but inside he seethed. He _knew_ Voldemort was there with him, using the Cruciatus on him.

"Why's… it hurt… so much?" Harry managed, after spluttering several times. The man looked askew for a moment, before deciding to answer.

"You were under that spell for a lot longer than a most people are. Also, we think you may have combined it with another spell." He said. Harry thought back, trying in vain to see a glint in the Dark Lord's eyes or a telltale sign of a second spell, verbal or not.

"Fine." Harry rasped after a moment. The man blinked at him, clearly shocked at the lack of anger. He watched as the boy turned onto his side, and continued to ignore him. Morris, as he was called, made his way to the wall where a door was concealed and tapped his wand against it in various place. The wall shifted, bricks shifting to the side as a doorway appeared. Morris hurried out of it, seeing Mr Tucker and Rita Skeeter waiting for him.

"How'd it go?" Mr Tucker asked.

"He believes it was You-Know-Who that tortured him, and not himself. Even with theVeritaserum in his veins." Morris said. The Skeeter women lapped it up like the answer to the universe, her QuickQuill scratching against the parchment.

"Oh good, I can have an interview with him if he's on that." She said. Mr Tucker frowned.

"No body is allowed to see the boy. He broke the several noses and a jaw bone when we were retrieving him from his cell." He said gruffly. Rita Skeeter frowned, never having been denied an interview in her life time. Normally, she would take her animagus form and listen in but Mr Tucker's eyes had followed her every move, not to mention all the detection wards around the room.

"So he's too dangerous for human contact?" Rita's eyes followed the Quill's progress, smiling at the choice of wording and clever puns delivered, while the two men's eyes followed the walls as they closed in on themselves.

Harry slept on his side that night, with memories of screaming and flashes of green, while the slitted red eyes he hated so much stared in amusement. He knew the spells on him were weakened, because when he woke again he was intertwined within the sheets of his own cell. He cursed, feeling the muscles strain from Voldemort's curse. Speaking, even to express his pain, was not a good idea. The second the word had left his mouth, his throat had roared in protest.

This time, a note had been left on the table in his cell, sitting in the centre with a neat fold. He ignored the note, not caring for it's message or it's writer.

Standing was painful after having been under the Cruciatus for so long, and the welts on his skin didn't aid him much. It was hell, his entire body ached and he was emotionally and mentally strained, and he was more alone than he had ever been in his life. But slowly, like a man on the road to recovery, he managed to pull himself along to the metal container, aching for something - anything - that would help.

Something was there indeed. Placed carefully next to each other was a small silver vile, filled with a liquid, and a glass of water. He drank the potion in gratitude, feeling the pain in his body mostly diminish. There were a few small aches, but nothing he couldn't handle.

As for the water, he drank as frantically as he dared. His throat felt parched, and feeling the cool liquid slip down his throat, he sighed.

The memories of the Ministry and the stocky man had not faded from his mind. Far from it, in fact. Every thought that accompanied them came with unmistakable rage.

"If they expect me to forget this, their deranged." He said, his voice still felt raw and his words were raspy, but much better than before.

' _I don't think anyone could.'_ Harry jumped, feeling fear well up inside him. He scrambled to the corner side of the bed, eyes wide and face panicked. His breathing was irregular and rushed, but strained with the effort. He scanned the room, looking for signs of movement or trace of a charm.

"Who's there?" He rasped. There was nothing to answer him, except the silence and the loneliness that had accompanied him for the past months. He felt a slight disappointment, even if the voice came from his mind, it was still better than nothing. He wondered if he would lose the ability to speak, someday, if Voldemort never showed up or he was never released. Would he forget feelings? Locked inside this tiny, white cell, trapped within the silence. Would he become an animal, without sense of thought, but living of it's own instincts?

His disappointment turned into anger. Why didn't they remember? Not even Voldemort was strong enough to cast a memory charm so powerful that Dumbledore could forget. It wasn't supposed to be possible… Dumbledore was the one thing that Voldemort feared…

He let himself fall against the wall, and rested his head in his arms. He knew the position must look pathetic, but he couldn't help it. Around him, the cell constricted and expanded and Harry sat on the edge, shoulders bent, head folded and isolation building.

-X-

Hermione and Ron sat side by side, their hands briefly touching as they read through Harry's letters. Around them, pieces of parchment dominated the area leaving little of the floor untouched. On every piece of parchment, certain words were underlined. The word, Snuffles, puzzled them. Ron had guessed it as a dog Harry must have found, while Hermione thought back to every conversation she remembered having with Harry. Snuffles, to her, sounded like a code name for something the Ministry wasn't allowed to know about.

Hermione had already spoken with the Order members about it, but none of them had heard the expression before, which left Hermione in a tough place. She had written a list of possibilities, but none seemed to fit in with another underlined statement.

"Maybe we should ask Dumbledore next time he's here. He seems to know everything." Ron said, watching Hermione's eye flit across a very recent letter from Harry.

"Don't be daft, Ronald. Professor Dumbledore is probably very busy with releasing Harry and finding Voldemort. Besides… you saw his hand, didn't you?" Hermione said. Ron nodded.

"Looks like he was cursed or something. But what does that have to do with Harry?" Ron asked.

"I don't like it." She said, frowning. She shifted positions on the floor.

"His hand? Why?" Hermione laughed at the confused expression on Ron's face.

"No, silly. I meant, why would Harry use the Imperius curse on anyone? And why were we at the Ministry of Magic with the Auror's? And Harry's statements all added up… well, mostly." Hermione said. Ron thought for a moment, then a nervous and slightly fearful look crossed his face.

"Well… last year he went a little mental on us. And he saw my dad get hurt in his dreams… you remember what the Order were talking about with my dad? What if Harry's possessed by Voldemort, or what if he's actually gone crazy?" He asked, putting careful emphasis on the 'what if's'. Hermione's face took a dangerous turn.

"How _dare_ you, Ronald Weasley. He's your friend! He wouldn't doubt you if he were in your situation, but here you are agreeing with the _Minister_ of all people. You remember what they said about him last year, don't you?" She thundered. Ron's face went red.

"I'm not agreeing with him! I was just thinking that _maybe_ it was true. You saw him when the Ministry of Magic came. He was shouting about Voldemort and Sirius. Who in Merlin's name is Sirius?" Ron yelled. Hermione's eyes watered.

"Who cares who Sirius is. Harry would never lie about fighting Voldemort, and you know it! After all he's been through…" Ron snorted.

"But no one was there! Even Dumbledore said so!"

"Don't you find it suspicious everyone had no memory of the time concerning what happened at the Ministry?" Hermione asked, and rubbed her eyes.

"Yeah, everyone except Harry!" Hermione slapped him.

"Get out! I cannot believe you would do this to your best friend. _Get out!"_ She screeched, aiming curses at him. Ron ran as fast as he could, knowing it was better not to cross Hermione in on of _those_ moods.

Hermione let the tears fall, shocked at how Ron could act towards his best friend. She knew a few things didn't make sense, but Harry needed all the support he could get. After the recent Daily Prophet, Hermione wouldn't be surprised if people started demanding Harry's blood. 'Deranged and Dangerous' they had called him. Hermione felt her blood begin to boil at the thought of the pesky Skeeter woman.

Feeling more stressed and alone than she'd ever felt in her life, Hermione began to pick up the pieces of parchment scattered around the room. Her thoughts went out to Harry, knowing no matter how lonely she felt, he felt a hundred times worse.


	2. His Darkest Hours

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter because, if I did, there would be far more slash.**

 **Crossroads**

 _Harry watched in both fear and awe as Dumbledore and Voldemort dueled with both speed and ferocity. No words were mumbled, not even for the spells, but Harry didn't need words. He could see the challenge and danger in both the wizard's eyes, along with the fury and anger. In some aspect, it reminded Harry of both fire and ice, always rivaling, always fighting, and always cancelling each other out. He could see's in Voldemort's slitted eyes the hate and anger and the passion. It burned him to look for too long, because he knew if Voldemort ever managed it, that look would appear again, stronger, in his eyes when Harry died. Dumbledore, whose eyes would tinkle and shine and throw hope into any situation, did not have their normal look. Instead, Harry saw an icy indifference that chilled him inside. Never had he seen such a look on his mentor's face._

 _Harry watched as the glass shattered and, for one single moment, shine. But the moment was broken, and the shards of glass fell like ice. When it came close, Dumbledore's spell turned it into harmless water, and the duel was raging again._

 _When it finally looked like Dumbledore had won and Voldemort had fled, Harry felt an immense pain in his scar and the rest was a blur. Voldemort whispering to him, Harry defeating him, Voldemort appearing in the flesh again, before disappearing as the Ministry arrived. Questions fired upon him, but Harry feeling nothing but sorrow, exhaustion and pain. His mind yearned for his Godfather, his body ached with pain and everything felt superficial._

Harry stared numbly at the wall, the memories replaying in his mind. His thoughts would flicker and die, but he paid them no attention. For all he knew, they weren't his thoughts at all, but merely the thoughts of many slipping within his mind, silent and leaving no trace, just as _he_ had done.

Shadows flittered across the walls and floor, almost imaginary in the dim light, but Harry could still make out the jutted shapes of grey from the white and black room. The shadows had been all Harry could concentrate for a severely long time.

At this very moment, Harry could easily believe his life was a weighted scale, and the Ministry held the pebble. He knew now that, no many how many times he told his story, or how many attempts he made to convince the council, nothing could change the fate that would befall him. The only thing that could change the minds of the Wizarding world could be Voldemort publicly appearing himself. Harry knew that wouldn't happen anytime soon.

He wished the weight would hurry and fall. Sitting in the room, dimly lit room as his fate was decided did nothing for one's nerves. After some time, Harry's numbness had acquired a taint of foreboding that accompanied the thought of his future.

A small tapping sound of rain brought him out of his subconsciousness. Harry looked up to see the small droplets of water, no doubt charmed, falling against the lone window. From his chair, Harry, for the first time, noticed the layout. It put him down even further, for the small room he'd been shoved in by the large Ministry official looked more like a jail cell than a waiting room. The only piece of furniture was the ancient chair Harry sat upon, while the window sat on the closest wall, to his right side. The door to the room was located on his left with his chair adjacent to it. It further depressed Harry when he noticed, no matter how hard he tried, he could not move further than half a meter for his arms and legs. There was a flash of lightning from outside his window, and Harry slumped forward. The wether and his mood seemed to have a common factor after all.

"Harry James Potter? You are being summoned for your sentence." An elderly man, dressed in a flamboyant yellow, said from the doorway. The same Ministry official from earlier followed after the old man and undid the spells on Harry, then pulled him up and cast more spells. Harry felt, with dread, some form of metal enclose his feet and hands which weighed them down.

"Get moving." He sneered, and pushed Harry roughly forward. He walked steadily with no idea of his destination. Whenever Harry would mistakenly make a wrong turn, in vain hope towards the exits, he was roughly shoved by the man behind him. On those times, Harry would swear and start down the rudely indicated path. When they passed people, Harry's eyes would widen in shock at the hate-filled glares and hissed threats. The Ministry had, no doubt, pooled lies into the Wizarding world without hesitation. He feared their hold on people's mind and beliefs had escalated, and now any person with doubt had found their true path. Unlike Harry, they no longer waited for instructions at the crossroads of their decisions.

"In here." The man pushed Harry through the doors and into the centre of the grand, circular room. His last meal threatened to regurgitate when the dread settled in, helped by the cold and unforgiving stares of the Wizengamot grumpy-in-appearance official led him to the imposing chair in the centre of the room and cast more spells to bind him in place. People from the seating above glared at him, and Harry felt his punishment would be something that far overshadowed the Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, stood up and began to speak.

"Harry James Potter, you will be punished accordingly for your crimes against the Wizarding world -"

"But I didn't -"

"-For breaking countless, irreplaceable and precious objects -"

"Because the Death Eaters -"

"-For causing extensive damage to many rooms of the Ministry of Magic -"

"I didn't do all of it! When Dumbledore and Voldemort were -"

"For leaving school without permission, along with a cursed group of your peers -"

"I didn't curse then -"

"For constantly lying about the return of a certain Dark Wizard, and causing members of the Wizarding world panic and fear -"

"I'm not lying! He's really back -"

"For tampering with the memories of ministry officials, Auror members and school peers -"

"I didn't!" He let the desperation and honesty sink into his voice. His face portrayed fear, anxiety and innocence, yet no matter how much desperate he looked, he saw only cold stares and sneers in response.

"For using the imperius curse several times on the respected members of the Auror office, and several school peers, including the former Headmaster." Harry felt his heart sink. Everyone… they had all abandoned him. After years of happiness with his new found friends, temptation had slipped in and taken the minds of the people he cared about. Now, nothing seemed to matter.

"For your crimes, you should be sent to the prison of Azkaban. However, a better idea has arisen from the ashes of the old one. Harry James Potter -" Harry felt his head swarm, and the hope in his mind bleed out. A fate worse than Azkaban awaited him.

"-You are to serve a life sentence in an experimental institution for the criminally insane."

Any hope remaining in Harry's desolate mind shattered at that moment. When one would later comment on the trial, that specific detail would escape the sealed lips from an undecided and mostly unnoticed Wizard. He would later tell the world that the moment the boy's sentence was spoken was the moment silence fell, and the boy's positive emotions, if they existed, had shattered.

The same Ministry official that had taken Harry in and set up the spells stepped forward to remove them. Harry hardly noticed, he was far too busy in the wastelands of his mind trying to make sense of what had just happened. He was so far into his thoughts, he didn't realise he'd left the Ministry or arrived in a bland cell that would become his new home.

"-Don't you worry, he'll be looked after just right. He'll be fed, bathed, entertained and completely devoid of human company." Harry blinked in shock, wondering what had just happened.

"Ah, it appears he's back with us now. Good." He turned to face Harry, and studied him closely for a moment. "There are a few ground rules. Follow them, and everyone's happy. If you don't, your not happy. Now, there is no resisting, no violence, no plans of escaping, no shouting and no games. We will permit you to talk to yourself, sleep whenever you please, bathe daily and be fed regularly. Also, no magic. And for safety reasons, a light will always be on in the room we keep you in." He smiled, and Harry stared at the room in shell-shocked indifference. There was a limited amount of room. It would easily be the size of his small bedroom that his cousin used to own. There were no windows, and the only furniture in the room consisted of a bed, white sheets and pillows, a desk and chair, both white and bolted down and another door. Harry walked towards it and pulled it open. Inside was the size of his old cupboard bedroom, where a small shower and toilet had been shoved in. Both, unmistakably, white.

He exited the room to find both the men had left, and the door sealed shut. In the back of the door was a small white container bolted on the back that could be pushed forward to the other side of the door. He walked over and pulled it out, making a soft noise when he realised it was deep and pushed out on the other side of the door. At the bottom of the container was a note written hastily on parchment.

 _Mr Potter_

 _The metal box you have taken this note out of will be how we communicate and send you food. Meals will be three times a day with sufficient amounts of time between each serving. Food choices are limited and will be consistent, and will only vary on Easter, where you will receive a small chocolate, Christmas, where you will receive a larger and more traditional meal, and New Years, where you will be required to change menu's. We have already taken to liberty to chose a meal, based on the choices at Hogwarts school, to feed you will be provided also. Parchment, quills and books will be presented at various times, on Monday will be two books, and the rest of the days Parchment and ink. A new quill will be provided every six months, and books will be collected the week after and replaced by two supplies, two cloths and bucket of soapy water will also be available if needed. If any more serious problem will occur, leave a note in the container for staff to collect and you will be stunned while a qualified Wizard fixes the , Mr B. Tucker._

Harry glared at the note, wishing his magical attributes would sense his distress and dispose of the imposing note. In not even twenty-four hours, his entire life had flipped and left him hanging by a thread while a tornado raged beside him. He felt his grip loosen, and Harry tumbled onto the bed in a moment of sheer insanity and bliss. It wasn't long before Harry's forgotten exhaustion took hold and led Harry into a world of nightmares.

 _He was chasing Bellatrix, who yelled taunts and jeers about his recently deceased Godfather. A part of Harry wanted to aim his wand and cast the killing curse, but a larger, more dominant part wanted her to suffer. To feel the pain he felt when he saw Sirius fall into the veil._

 _A curse was yelled, teasing remarks were passed and a voice whispered seductively in Harry's ears. Kill her, it said, she deserves it._

 _He remembered the rest in flashes after that. A nightmare upon nightmare as his darkest hours played before him. Voldemort appearing, Dumbledore and Voldemort duelling, Bellatrix escaping, the statues coming to life, Voldemort disappearing, the Ministry arriving, the questions, the accusations and the lies. They had all lied, Harry remembered in his dreams. He knew Voldemort had been there, and that Dumbledore had fought him. The proof looked upon them from around the room. The crumpled statues, the glass, water and remembered no one believed him, not even Dumbledore, and his friends appeared to wake from a trance. Harry called to them, waiting for their words of agreement._

 _Nothing came._

 _He remembered nothing after that except shock. Shock and hurt._

He woke up startled, sweat -or maybe tears?- running down his face. The lights hadn't shifted from the optimistic glow, and there was no clock to indicate the time or date. He didn't move for a few minutes, instead he stared up into the ceiling with a devastated look upon his face. When he felt his eyes start to prickle from not blinking for so long, and his muscles straining to stretch of move about, he stood. He took a moment to stretch, and felt much better.

Seeing the container pushed to his side, he wondered over and pulled it open.

A bowl sat in the middle of a tray next to a plastic-in-appearance spoon. Under it sat a napkin, on the opposing side to the spoon sat a note. Harry ate his meal first, which consisted to just enough to keep him going, yet not enough to make him feel comfortably fed. It was little over the amount the Dursley's would give him on a good day. Cursing them loudly, he pushed the bowl and spoon aside. He opened the note after, and seeing the parchment filled with the somewhat neat writing from the Mr Tucker, felt his insides churn.

"Better get this over with..." He mumbled to himself.

 _Mr Potter._

 _As on your welcoming note, I must have forgotten a vital piece of information. Forgive my mistake, but I left out the rights for mail._

 _I am delighted to inform you that you will receive mail, if it's sent, once a month. Each letter will be carefully examined and read, both from you and your correspondents. If any misleading information, escape plans, plotting or the like appears, mail services will be revoked until a later date._

 _Sincerely, Mr B. Tucker._

Harry felt a grin cross his face. Perhaps his future was not as dark as he feared. The simple right to send letters was a big improvement on his situation. He could send letters to Ron and Hermione asking what happened, and why they lied to the Ministry. He could also send a letter to Lupin and ask if Sirius had been freed of his crimes, under the name of Snuffles, of put the bowl and spoon back into the container, yet kept the bit of parchment as proof. Knowing how his last year had gone, he wouldn't be surprised if a law was passed to revoke his right of mail. Something that would be under the pretence that he'd use the mail to somehow escape, or plot to overthrow the Ministry, or something else of the like.

When he'd pushed the lid shut, he paced the room for a moment before deciding to shower.

The water was warmer and nicer than he had first anticipated, and it seemed like there was no restrictions on how much water he was allowed to use. It was a welcome relief to have the grime, dirt and blood washed off his body. He watched the trails it made to the drain until the last had slipped inside. There was, to his even greater surprise, a bar of soap. He lunched for it and grinned when it fell to a spot near his feet. The muggle saying 'Don't drop the soap' occurred to him and he chuckled when he bent down to pick it up.

He finished off his shower with an upbeat tune for one in his situation. His memories didn't bother him, and his emotions couldn't touch him for the time being. He felt like his shattered hope was beginning to mend itself.

When he checked the white container, two books, a quill, some ink and a small stack of letter were waiting for him. He took the objects and set them on the desk, not even looking over the books. Instead, his rapt attention was focused on the letters, undeniably from his friends. A few from people he didn't recognise.

The first one he opened was from Ron, and he felt his heart sink as he read it.

 _Harry._

 _I'm not sure how many I'll get to write of these. Sorry mate, but mum thinks you might actually be going mental. Everyone wants to know why your saying the Death Eaters attacked us and Voldemort fought Dumbledore. I don't remember any of that happening. Hermione said that it might have been memory charms, but then changed her mind. Girls. She kept going on about 'every memory charm leaves a mark or a trace and we'd know if one had been used' and that Dumbledore couldn't possibly be put into a memory charm._

 _Where are they keeping you? No one is telling us anything except it isn't Azkaban. Well, that's all dad managed to find out._

 _Dumbledore was furious when he came for a meeting with the others. For once, we could hear them yelling from the bedrooms._

 _Ron_

Harry felt his throat burn, and before the burn got any worse he pulled open the next sealed envelope. This time from Hermione, asking if he was alright, if they were treating him well, and where he was. She also mentioned that Dumbledore was trying to get him out, as well as the Auror's. She didn't mention the condition of the Wizarding world, or how people reacted to his arrest. He hastily scribbled a reply, telling her he felt like faeces, they were feeding him and that he had no idea where he was. He briefly described the room and explained the rights he had as a prisoner. He asked how she was, and how her parents were.

The next he opened was sent by a combination of Lupin and Tonks, telling him they, along with the others, were trying their hardest to free him, or at least change his sentence to house arrest or expulsion from Hogwarts. Harry, in the reply, thanked them and asked if Sirius had been freed.

The next letter was a combined one from the majority of the D.A. asking the same questions as Ron had, with an added note from Luna to warn him of the crumpled-horned snorkack because they liked to dwell in places like his (he didn't know if Luna knew where he was, or how it looked, so he didn't comment). He did write that if they wanted to keep the D.A. running, Ron and Hermione would probably agree to it. He also wrote that they should practice the patronus charm amongst the others he'd taught them.

The last of the letters were taunts from people he'd never heard of. Harry felt a twinge of annoyance, he'd been punished for something he didn't do, he'd been moved into a cell where it appeared he wasn't going to ever be let out unless Voldemort appeared, and now he had to deal with the taunts and accusations of the Wizarding world. He ripped those letters up, and pushed them to the corner of the desk.

After he'd written all his reply's, he carelessly chucked the letters into the container. On top he threw the remains of the other letters on top, and slammed the lid shut.

The rest of Harry's day passed slowly. He slept, read over the books left (an information book on the troll wars, and another on goblins), showered for a second time and spent time staring at the wall. Lunch and dinner came and passed. As breakfast, lunch and dinner consisted of the same amount of food. Enough, but not fulfilling.

He wondered how long it would take for Voldemort to leave a trace. Some form of mark to identify his return, so that Harry could be released. He knew it wouldn't be soon, and Harry was prepared to spend some amount of weeks, months even, before anything happened. And so, he spent his first two months in the small, white space of his cell. At times, the silence would get to him and he had to make noise, just so he knew he wasn't insane. The letters kept coming, and Harry replied hastily, asking about his friends lives, if Voldemort was starting to show, if people were disappearing and if Sirius had been freed. He tried to ignore the lack of information of Sirius, and the fact that the letters got shorter every time.

 **-X-**

Voldemort sat at the head of the grand table in Malfoy Manor. Around him, his followers looked nervous and sickly, staring anywhere but his eyes. Voldemort was no fool, he knew the majority of his Death Eaters had come back in fear, not loyalty. He knew the moment he disappeared, his most highest ranked Death Eaters would be spilling lies in court about threats and curses used on them.

There was a small cough, and the muggle that had been dumped in the center of the table started to wake. He stared at it, disgusted. The muggle twitched and slowly rubbed it's eyes in confusion, blinking into the candle light on the expensive chandelier above.

 _"Crucio!"_ He hissed, and the muggle screamed in pain. He made note of the youngest Malfoy's flinch, and glance to the wall behind the muggle.

"Draco... kill her." Voldemort said. Draco looked sick, but raised his trembling hand, wand locked loosely in place. Voldemort watched closely, waiting to see if the boy had it in him. If not, Voldemort would threaten the boy's parents, or give him a mission in punishment.

"M-master... the Ministry is a-at the do-oor waiting to inspect the manor." Trembled Wormtail. Voldemort took great delight in watching the rat's eyes widen in fear.

"Fine. Leave." He said, his eyes focused on the Death Eaters sitting at the table. They scrammed, with Lucius Malfoy showing them to the secret passage that led outside. Voldemort himself cast a disillusion charm, and kept his seat. He knew the Ministry idiots wouldn't see him. He watched Bellatrix quickly kill the muggle, and levitate it down the corridor. A moment later, the Ministry workers appeared at the mouth of the room, quickly scanning it. Seeing no reason to fear, they took out their wands and cast several spells before slowly moving in.

His mind floated back to _The Boy_. He had planned everything perfectly and, although his exit wasn't as quickly as he planned, it seemed the Ministry still had no idea he had returned. The Potter boy, as he had heard, had been moved to an institution of some kind. Voldemort took great joy in knowing he had finally isolated the boy from his friends and family. In another few weeks he would send a Death Eater to intercept the letters, and make Potter feel truly alone.


	3. An Illumination in Disguise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **You all hate me because it's late. Oh well, it's done, isn't it? Not very well, but still done. If there are any problems, drop me a message and I'll fix them, but please be polite about it. Anyway, I've re-written this a grand total of _nine_ times, so yeah... I'm not happy with this chapter. I'm actually VERY nervous putting this up, I don't want to disappoint. So... sorry in advance. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter because, if I did, there would be far more slash.**

 **Crossroads**

They stood in the centre of the headmasters office, waiting for the headmaster's age-weary face to acknowledge them. Severus was occasionally clutching his arm and Minerva noticed whenever he would, Dumbledore would glance up with a knowing look. There was something going on – something that they were not telling her – something serious.

"Albus -" Severus started, his hand gripping tightly on his arm.

"Go, my boy, we can discuss this when you return." Dumbledore interpreted, picking out a lolly from a bowl. Severus nodded and strode off, obviously hurrying. Minerva shot a questioning look at her employer and long-time friend.

"It appears that he is being summoned. For what, I can only guess." Perhaps about the situation involving young Harry." Dumbledore had set the grounds, Minerva saw her opportunity.

"We must help Mr Potter and get him out of there," she said, her tone clipped. She was deeply worried about the teen. Seeing the look on Dumbledore's face darken, she could only assume the worst about why she was in her current situation.

"It seems Harry is in a worse condition than what we expected. Unfortunately, he's in the safest possible place at this moment, and it would be an unwise decision to move him." Minerva's blood chilled.

"What condition?"

"It seems Harry's had a hallucination, involving Voldemort. He used quite a painful and dark curse on himself." Minerva was so shocked she didn't even flinch at the name like she normally would.

"Then we _must_ get him out of there." She exclaimed once she had recovered. She did not stop that boy getting expelled every year for the past five years only for him to kill himself. Even when he shouldn't be in that situation.

"We shall continue this conversation once Severus arrives from his summon. Please take a seat. Oh, and Minerva? Would you like a lemon drop?" Dumbledore grinned at Minerva's annoyed expression, but she still took the empty seat directly in front of the headmasters chair, wondering how long her colleague would take to return.

Apparently, it would be the better of a half an hour. Severus returned with what appeared to be an annoyed expression, but Minerva had not spent from the beginning of his Hogwart's years until now with him. She could just see a flicker of emption spark in those dark depths.

"The Dark Lord has had contact with the Potter boy." Severus said smoothly. Minerva did not even try to hold in the gasp of shock.

"But how?" She cried, staring at Severus. This time, she could tell it was definitely annoyance in his eyes.

"The connection the Dark Lord has with Potter." Dumbledore sighed, rearranging an unfamiliar ring on his finger.

"I had thought so," Dumbledore murmured, more towards himself than his familiars, "it was about time Tom discovered how to manipulate the connection."

"It is hard to tell how much contact the Potter boy and the Dark Lord has had. I highly doubt that this would be the first time." Severus said quietly. Minerva nodded in agreement, who could even guess? If the Dark Lord and Harry had, in fact, had contact, then who was to say that he had not been possessed during their time in the Ministry?

"But what if -"

"Harry has not been possessed but the Dark Lord. Ever." Dumbledore said, reading her thoughts. Minerva felt a strong twinge of anger at his apathetic reply, who was to say she was wrong?

"But what if he was?" Minerva asked, but Dumbledore merely held up his hand and gestured to Severus, who was looking thoroughly annoyed.

"I believe Severus has something to say." Dumbledore gestured again, but this time for Severus to speak.

"I would like to know why you told the Ministry that the Dark Lord was not there. Potter's story matches up, as much as I hate to admit it. Especially the part about Black. Why would Potter be mourning about a man he has never been on good terms with?" Severus asked, looking pleased. Minerva supposed that this was due to his rather poor relationship with the man, as of late.

"Harry is safest where he is now." Was all he said. Anger coursed through Minerva, along with a thought.

"But if Mr Potter has had a painful incident involving a hallucination, and You-Know-Who has discovered their connection..." She gasped, appalled.

"We must rescue him!" She yelled. Beside her, Severus winced at her tone of voice.

"I will repeat it again, Harry is safest where he is now." Dumbledore said calmly.

"But we can't just leave him in there! He's literally tearing himself apart!" She shouted. Dumbledore's eye's had long ago lost their twinkle, replaced by a cold look. In the corner of her eyes, she saw Severus' brief nod in agreement.

"I'm afraid that Mr Potter is much safer where he is now than anywhere else." Dumbledore said. Severus strode forward, his robes billowing behind him.

"He's just a boy, Albus. I have already informed you of the Dark Lord's ill intentions for the boy, yet you keep him there?" He asked coldly, glaring at the headmaster.

"I doubt Tom would go after Harry. It would mean reveling his rebirth, and he wouldn't do that. Not before he has an army." Dumbledore said. Minerva felt disbelief flood her, did he even _care._

"And by that time it would be too late. The Dark Lord does not have to kill the boy since he's managing it so much better himself. Leave him there for much longer and he might actually die." Severus growled, Minerva could only nod in agreement with her former student. _Tom_ might not have gone after Harry, but _Voldemort_ would. Sometimes, she wondered how her peer had trouble distinguishing the two. Minerva had known _Tom_ at school, as he was in the year below her and she was honestly surprised to learn that that quiet, lonely boy would become Lord Voldemort.

"My decision is final. Trust me… I do not like it, but it's for the best." Dumbledore said sadly. Minerva's attention snapped straight to the man, not believing what she was hearing.

In the corner of her eye, she saw Severus pulling a memory out from his temple. He stared at it for a moment, before trapping the white mist in a viral and dropping the vial on Dumbledore's desk.

"Then that makes you not only a fool, but a liar." Severus snapped at the elder man after he had finished, before taking his exit. Dumbledore stared sadly, before turning to Minerva.

"I am not doing this because I want to. Harry is safest where he is now. Remember, Tom never liked to be in the spotlight, he preferred stay in the shadows. People always feared him more." Dumbledore said, facing her.

"Perhaps, but You-Know-Who is smart and always get what he wants, one way or another." Minerva said glumly, knowing that he would not change his mind.

"We can only hope for the best and, if it comes to it, we can always get Harry out. He is in no danger whatsoever." He smiled sadly at her, and Minerva took it as her cue to leave. Casting the old man a dirty look and a muttered goodnight, she briskly left. If Dumbledore would do nothing, then this would all be up to her.

 **-X-**

Attempts of sleep were fruitless that night, Harry discovered as he tossed in his bed for the umpteenth time. The roller-coaster of emotions that had swarmed him should have left him drained but, apparently, he was just so emotionally exhausted that he found sleep a concept just out of grasp.

Another thing that didn't aid to his sleeping desire was the pain throughout his body. It hurt far more and for far longer than the Cruciatus Curse should hurt, not to mention the effect. After being cursed in his fourth year, Harry had read more up on the three unforgivable curses, and the more he thought about it, the less likely it seemed to be the Cruciatus. The Cruciatus Curse was torture on the mind – not the body. He was proof of that. His body's welts still not fully healed, but Harry suspected they mixed healing potions within his meals.

Turning again, he let out a yawn and stretched, hoping his sore body would get the message and relax. To his dismay, moving seemed like a bad idea; he only felt more awake than ever. He slowed his breathing to a tempo that seemed like the sleeping tempo, and tried to clear everything from his mind, concentrating only on the feeling of the breaths leaving him. Slowly, the lights seemed dimmer; his senses slowed... his eyes dropped...

 _He was standing in the shadowed edges of a large, circular room. It was made of a dark, brick-like material that gleamed a light green from the dimmed lighting. In appearance, the room seemed spaciously empty, apart from the ancient looking chandelier that hung from the high ceiling. Daunting, he would use to best describe his surroundings._

 _In the middle of the room stood too figures and, Harry took a step further into the shadows, he recognised one as Voldemort, the chalk-white, reptilian man was hard to mistake. The other had buried himself in a large dark cloak, and all Harry could figure out was that this was a male. On the other side of the room, a small bundle rested, occasionally tossing._

 _Voldemort and the other figure seemed to be talking, but Harry couldn't make out any of the words. It sounded like a spell had been cast to muffle the words from around them – their voices were more like vibration than actual voices – but he could tell Voldemort was planning something. As quietly as he could, Harry took a cautious step forward. Instantly, Voldemort had his snake-like, crimson eyes trained on Harry. The other male kept his eyes trained on Voldemort._

" _Ah, Harry. How nice of you to join us. I'd introduce you, but I believe you've already met." Said the high and cold voice of Lord Voldemort. Harry winced, but took a defiant step forward._ _No point in hiding, he already knows I'm here._

" _Don't be shy, come a little closer." And just like a puppet, Harry stepped closer. He tried to peer under the cloaked figures hood, but the person only lowered their head. All Harry caught was pale white skin and upturned lips, smirking._

 _It was impossible to think positive. He knew Voldemort would either torture him or make an attempt on his life. It was only a matter of time. He had a long night waiting for him, unless he woke up first. Or escaped. An idea gripped him to escape, or at least hold off the torture that was inevitably coming his way_

" _What is that?" Harry asked, feigning interest and nodding his head at the bundle whilst trying to discretely pinch himself awake. It didn't work, and Voldemort didn't answer, Harry had the feeling he would be better off not knowing, seeing the look of morbid delight when Voldemort looked at it._

 _The reptilian man spent another moment looking at it, before clearing his throat and facing Harry."I'm going to give you one last chance. Surrender, and I'll kill you quickly. If not -" His eyes flashed, and Harry didn't need to be able to see into the Dark Lord's mind to know he would be facing a lengthy and painful death. His decision, however, had long ago been decided._

 _"Never." Harry said, challenge lacing his tone. Voldemort tilted his head to the side, as if thinking._

 _"Why?" He asked, "You are trapped in a cell you will never escape from, if I don't decide to kill you first." He said, more than sure of himself._

" _You're wrong. Dumbledore's trying to get me out, and so are the rest of the Order." Harry said, more to himself. It wouldn't help to lose confidence in his friends, especially to_ _his_ _words_ _. He saw Voldemort's eyes gain an amused gleam, and the hooded figure's shoulders begin to shake in withheld laughter._

" _You are a foolish boy, trusting that old coot. How about we make a new deal, join me, and I'll let you live." Voldemort said. Harry got the impression that it was more of a demand than an actual question, and a demand the Dark Lord had been tossing up deciding whether or not he would offer._

" _I'll never join you, and Dumbledore_ _will_ _rescue me."_

" _No, he will not. Do you honestly think he is more concerned about a teenage boy than the possible return of the darkest and most powerful wizard in centuries?" Voldemort murmured. Harry didn't answer the question, he didn't need to. Voldemort could see the indecision in his eyes._

" _Join me, boy, and I just might let you out." Voldemort said, with an air of persuasion. It was hard for Harry to deny that just a tiny, probably Slytherin, part of him wanted out, and to take Voldemort's offer. But Voldemort would surely kill him, the logical part of his mind argued._

" _Of course, you would have to do something for me in return." He muttered. Harry took his chance and stepped back slowly. If he thought about it, it was more of a shuffling movement to put distance between himself and the monster that stood before him. When Voldemort showed no signs of noticing Harry, he took another small step back._

" _What could a teen_ _age boy possibly do for the most powerful dark wizard in centuries?" He snapped, earning a chuckle from the hooded figure. Harry had a feeling the cloaked person knew what he was_ _up to, and waiting for the perfect moment to alert his master. Assuming that was the relationship that Voldemort and the cloaked man shared._

 _"What indeed?" His eyes flashed challengingly, but seeing Harry did not make a move to reply, he continued. "It is a task merely to prove your allegiance."_

 _"I never said I'm going to join you. I would much rather die." Something akin to madness glinted in Voldemort's eyes, and Harry stopped his shuffling for the moment._

 _"That can be arranged." Voldemort grinned at him._

 _"Just like every other time you've 'killed' me?" Harry asked, ignoring their last meeting. Voldemort_   
_  
had   
_   
_almost killed him, and Harry_   
_  
had   
_   
_begged not to die._   
_Feeling a for_   
_eign presence on the corner of his mind. Voldemort's demeanour changed at that moment, and Harry was increasingly being alert to his body – the real one – and it's discomfort._

" _Very well, Potter, we'll be in touch." Voldemort said, aiming his wand. The world started to spin, quickly constricting until -_

 _Nothing._

Harry blinked up into the dull light, more than annoyed at its existence than ever. Recently, he'd become used to sleeping on his stomach so he wouldn't have to wake up to the lights. It was a strategy that proved rather genius – Harry's mood was always best in the mornings. The more of the day that passed, the more depressing his situation became. Entertaining ones self in such a place proved very difficult – it was like his cell was specifically designed to hold as little entertainment as possible. Every part of him wished that one day that Voldemort would go through the same thing and, if he were bored enough, he would imagine just that.

With a groan, he shifted his body until he was sitting on the edge of the bed, resting his head on his hands. That dream... Voldemort had been up to something, something more than just trying to change Harry's allegiance. What, exactly, he did not know, but he could only guess how horrible it would surely be.

Absent-mindedly, he stroked his scar, still feeling the tell tale signs of pain. Since the time that Voldemort had returned, his scar had spent little time time without pain. He was fairly used to it now – it was more of an annoyance than an actual pain.

A heavy _clunk_ and the sound of scraping metal pulled him from his thoughts. From the sounds, he knew it must be the time of breakfast, perhaps lunch if he had slept through breakfast. When getting to his feet, he got an idea.

"Hey, you!" He yelled as he stood pushed up to the wall. He didn't think it was likely to work, but it was definitely worth a shot.

" _Yess?"_ that same voice from before hissed back. Harry jumped at the sound of it – all at once, it was speaking from everywhere, though it was no where to be seen.

"... What?" Harry murmured, feeling his face heat up at the concept of talking to a random voice which he could not see. His second year was enough to make him weary. This voice sounded English, however. He was almost sure of it. A mocking 'tut tut' sound echoed around him, and Harry felt like he was back at the Dursley's, scowling at his feet whilst his aunt – or uncle – would shout at him. _"Manners, Potter,"_ it whispered.

"Who and where are you?" Harry asked cautiously, expecting no answer. He didn't want to be declared crazy, like he had been so many times before, yet it was still better than hearing voices. Slimly.

" _You don't know me, but we've known each other for years. As for where I am, I am where ever you are, Harry,"_ it riddled, mockery and humour in it's voice, _"why would you ask such a question?"_

Harry was definitely not expecting that. It would seem obvious, he knew, if someone asked him, "What do you mean?"

" _Manners, Harry. We start with introductions,"_ Harry bit back a scowl, he _had_ asked who it was, _"and you may call me 'Master'."_

Harry snorted at the tone of voice. It was a similar sound to Malfoy's lazy drawl when he was acting particularly bratty. As the voice started to quietly talk again, Harry couldn't help but reply. It was as though the months he'd suffered through silent confinement were adding up to something, and someone to talk to was the prize. If that was the case, then Harry wouldn't let this chance pass. He rather liked having someone, real or not, to talk too. It made his current situation so much more bearable. Anything was better than nothing.


	4. Nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Well, late again. Probably not the best of habits to be getting into. I'd like to think it's writers block... but I know it's just my laziness. And thanks to all the beautiful, wonderful people who still follow this. So, after having said that, sorry about the crap chapter.  
> **

**Disclaimer: I had a wonderful dream last night where I owned Harry Potter, but then I woke up. It was terribly upsetting.**

 **Chapter Four - Nightmares**

Harry slowly turned onto his stomach, mindful of the burning sensation blazing throughout his body; the throb of his head and the ache of his limbs. His skin stretched and pain danced along his body, and Harry hissed in pain. He shifted his weight to the other side – which seemed to help a little. The pain lessened and he let out a sigh of relief.

He rested his head on his arms, surveying the welts covering his skin that the fabric of his clothing that slipped off. They were slowly healing, looking much better than how they had looked when he first noticed them. Perhaps, if the Wizarding World didn't hate him as much as they did, the medics would have helped him; healed him completely instead of letting him ride out the torture. It reminded him closely of his childhood, of how his uncle would deal with his wounds; by telling him how much he deserved, and how lucky he should be that grateful he didn't have any more wounds.

Now that he thought of it, it was probably the hardest part of his sentence. Having to live in identical situations to how he lived in his childhood – lonely, in pain and without any one to talk to. If he hadn't met his friends, Hermione and Ron, then this would not have bothered him all that much. But after the five years of their company and friendship, he found it hard to return to such a solitary life.

Without thinking, Harry swiftly rolled onto his back and cursed at the extreme pain. He knew now never to skip a meal again – potions for pain relief were obviously mixed in with his bland meals.

The voice seemed to take note of his pain, and, in it's genderless voice, asked, _'are you alright?'_

"Yeah," he grunted through his deep breaths, trying to control the pain. The sleeves slipped down his arms to reveal the red welts. The voice seemed to realize.

 _'I was unaware...'_ It said softly. A strange tingling, yet pleasant, sensation ran throughout Harry's body. It slipped across his arms; his legs, his torso. The sensation covered every area he was experiencing pain. As soon as his entire body seemed to be tingling pleasantly, the sensation stopped. The pain stopped with it. In amazement, Harry traced his skin where he had known some of the welts to be. The smooth skin felt natural, if a little cool, under his fingertips. Like nothing was wrong.

"How did you do that?" Harry asked, not believing his eyes. The voice chuckled.

 _'Don't lose any sleep over it, Harry, because it doesn't matter. Just concentrate on your breathing... relax... let me take care of you...'_ Harry felt his eyes drifting shut at the soft voice, and the soft feeling that accompanied it. Harry didn't even try to fight it – he had never been so tired in his life.

 _Harry was spread-eagle on a cold marble floor. The walls towered high. On Harry's left, portraits of pointy-faced blondes glared down at him, while on his right, high windows cast shadows upon the floor. The orange glow reflected badly on the portraits, with the faces looking quite evil in their places._

 _Slowly picking himself up, Harry groaned when he realised where he was – another dream, but slightly different from his last. He was in a hallway – not a circular room like the last. For as long as he could see, there were no doors, nor were there any people in sight. Great, he was stuck._

" _Ah, Harry, how nice you to join me. I have been eagerly awaiting your arrival." Voldemort smirked, his body twisting from one of the shadows in the hall. He took a step forward – the shadows seemed to step with him._

" _Unfortunately, our little chat was interrupted last time and there were still so many things I had to speak with you about." Voldemort said, still smirking. His eyes glistened dangerously, and Harry forced his stare away. He knew Voldemort was an accomplished Legilimens and would not hesitate to inflict mental torture on Harry._

" _What a shame." Harry muttered sarcastically, not having any regrets about missing their 'chat'._

" _Now where shall I begin..." Voldemort's expression took a turn to thoughtful. Whether it was genuine was beyond Harry, it looked real, but the Dark Lord would never be caught speechless. He was much too smart for that. "With my demands perhaps." he said to himself._

" _What demands?" Harry asked, butting in to the man's train of thought._

 _The Dark Lord let out a light chuckle, "nothing you should worry about, Potter. Just think of it as more of a... question for now." The threat in his tone was heavy – answer the question or be tortured._

 _Harry kept his eyes trained on the reptilian man for any signs of movement. He wouldn't put it past Voldemort to attack him while his back is turned, regardless of what Dumbledore seems to think._

" _Tell me where Dumbledore keeps it_ _, or I kill the blood traitor." He said, waving a robed arm. Ginny's terrified face appeared from behind the darkness of his robe, and Harry felt a wave of anger and fear. Anger at Voldemort for capturing Ginny, and fear for her life._

" _Let her go!" The Dark Lord laughed – cold and high and insane – at his words. Ginny was pale, and looked like she was desperately trying not to cry. Try as she might, Harry could see her terrified eyes shining with tears. Something inside him snapped at the sight – he never wanted anything like this to happen._

" _You must be a fool to think I would simply 'let her go'," Voldemort hissed, "now tell me, where is it?"_

" _I have no idea what you're talking about!" Harry yelled, rushing towards Voldemort in a fruitless attempt. The man-turned-monster merely smirked at his antics, and pointed his wand at Harry. A red jet appeared from the end of it, streaming towards Harry. Harry stopped his attack, weary of the spell but to slow to avoid it's course. It hit him in the center of his chest, and Harry found that, no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't move. He groaned at the helpless feeling_

" _That wasn't a very smart thing to do, Potter," Voldemort said softly. Harry, who still had control of his mouth, spat at his feet. Voldemort's expression of annoyance quickly became anger, his red eyes flashing darker._

" _Crucio!" he hissed out. Awaiting pain, Harry clenched his eyes shut, only to hear a high pitched, girlish scream._

" _Ginny!" He roared, watching the young girl's body spasm under the pain. This was all his fault, but he had no idea what Voldemort was talking about._

" _Now, I'm going to ask you again. If you don't answer, I'll kill her," Voldemort whispered softly, his words heavy._

" _I have no idea what you're talking about!" Harry yelled, wishing nothing more to know. Ginny would die because of his naivety. If only he had paid more attention... he'd know..._

" _My diary and my ring, you fool," he hissed._

" _Tom Riddle's diary?" Harry asked. He really didn't think it had been that important to Voldemort, though it now appeared to be. What the ring was, he had no idea, but he assumed it was similar to the diary in it's importance._

" _Yes, that diary," Harry saw Voldemort's obvious fury at the sound of his birth name._

" _It was destroyed," Harry murmured quietly. Voldemort's growl of fury answered him, and a moment later cold hands were pushing his head up._

" _Legilimens," he said, and suddenly, Harry was seeing his memories. Ginny almost dead, Riddle talking, the snake, piercing the diary, Riddle's screams, Dumbledore's office... Lucius Malfoy..._

 _Suddenly, the flow of memories stopped, and Voldemort's fury was evident. The monster hissed out a string of curses in parseltongue, before turning back to Harry._

" _Well, boy," he spat, "it looks like I have more important things than dealing with you. Feel very lucky, because I will be back, and you will give me what I want, or you will suffer." With another flick of his wand, the hall was being sucked away from under their feet._

-x-

When Voldemort came to, he was reclining in the armchair in his personal study. Nagini was slithering towards him, her tongue flicking out to taste the air. She raised her head, and Voldemort trailed a large pale hand along her scaly length.

" **It is how I expected. The fool Dumbledore is after my horcrux's."** He said softly in their shared language.

" **I will not be able to go out and hunt any more?"** She asked, staring unblinkingly at her beloved master.

" **No."** She hissed in disappointment.

Voldemort gently stroked the snake's head as she coiled and uncoiled on the ground at his feet. She was a large snake – formidable as a foe even to a wizard, yet Voldemort would not let her out of his sight. His precious horcrux's were being targeted by that foolish old man. The information from the Potter boy checked out – Lucius had mentioned that the diary had been destroyed.

But it did not change his dilemma. From what he assumed, Dumbledore had Marvolo's ring in his possession. He knew he needed to have the rest of his horcrux's returned to him; the diadem, the cup and the locket. Nagini was already with him, and the ring and diary had been destroyed. He hissed angrily.

" **I must recapture my other horcrux's before they are destroyed."** He said after a moment's silence, still contemplating how to get the diadem from Hogwarts. Perhaps, if he could find a way through the wards...

" **Why not send a slave to get it, master?"** Nagini asked, following his train of thought. They bother understood that the diadem would be the hardest to get, especially with Dumbledore still there. Of course, if Voldemort's plans all went accordingly, he would not have to worry about the fool interfering in his plans any more. After Dumbledore fell, Hogwarts would be there for the taking.

" **I cannot risk a follower discovering my horcrux's in case they get any idea's."** Nor could he risk drawing the attention from Dumbledore. He would surly notice a Slytherin student looking for the Room of Requirements. He had no doubt that Dumbledore already knew there was a horcrux at the school and sending a follower to search for it would only make it obvious where that horcrux was.

" **Make more."** She said. Voldemort chuckled.

" **Perhaps."** If the worst would come to it, Voldemort would not hesitate to sacrifice another part of his soul for immortality. He would go to any lengths to retain immortality, like he had done anything to become immortal in the first place.

Deciding to worry about the diadem later, he considered if he would be able to trust Bellatrix to get the cup from the Black vault without trouble...

"Wormtail," he called, then sat back as the stocky man hurried to his side, terror obvious on his rounded face. The man bowed low to the floor, and tentatively raised his eyes.

"I require your arm," Voldemort said, watching as Wormtail's face took a horrified turn. The cowardly rat probably thought Voldemort would cut it off, like he had nothing better to do than cut off his followers arms. Pathetic.

" **Let me eat him, master. Let me hunt him down like the rat he is."** Nagini hissed from Voldemort's side.

"B-but -"

"Give me your arm," he cut off, and grasped Wormtail's marked arm with a strong grip. Wormtail cried out, before realising Voldemort merely wanted to summon a follower.

He called for Bellatrix, ignoring Wormtail's cries of discomfort, and reclined back in his chair. Wormtail stared at him in anticipation.

"Leave, Wormtail. I have no further use of you." The rat left hastily, almost tripping over his own feet as he hurried from the room.

" **Now may I make a meal of him?"** Nagini asked, her tone as hopeful as a snake's could possibly sound.

" **He has not yet outlived his purpose. Go make a meal of one of the muggle prisoners."** He hissed to her. She uncoiled from her spot on the floor and slipped out of the room.

Bellatrix arrived only moments later, panting heavily from running. Voldemort looked up as she tottered over, bowed and raised her shinning eyes to meet his.

"Can I be of service, my lord?" She asked, her voice hopeful and devoted. Voldemort grimaced at her less-than-subtle display of emotion.

"Yes, Bellatrix, you may... I require two things of you. First, I felt an object in your care before the first war. Bring it to me. Secondly, I need you to visit someone..."

She began to nod excitedly, listening eagerly to her master's devious plan. Dumbledore thought the boy would be safe in his confinement, yet her master's plan worked well Potter's current position.

Nagini had returned by the time he had finished explaining what she had to do. Naturally, Voldemort did not tell Bellatrix the full extent of his plans. He left out all the details that she did not need to know.

He dismissed her after with a wave of his hand, and Bellatrix left with knowledge of her missions. As she hurried out, Voldemort again reclined in his seat, stroking Nagini's scaly head while enjoying the beginning of the Boy-Who-Lived's end.

" **Quicker than I expected of you, Nagini."** Voldemort hissed softly to her. She acknowledged him by placing her scaly head on the arm of his chair. He stroked the scales gently, enjoying the rough feeling against his hand.

" **Only the little humans were left."** She said, disappointment evident. He hummed in response, promising there would be more humans for her to eat later. His mind was elsewhere, concentrating on the skinny, teenage nuisance.

"Harry Potter..." he murmured to himself, "I will destroy everything you know, erase every memory you cherish and kill every one you love. By the time I am done with you, you will see and remember _nothing_."

-x-

Harry's dreams of Voldemort never creased after that night. Every night, his mind was invaded with the presence of the snake-like man who asked the same questions; where is it and did Dumbledore have it, before he took turns in torturing Harry and Ginny. Most of the words uttered were the names of spells and begging for an end to the torture that would never come. Harry always tried his best not to beg, but the pain never stopped. It felt like hours; years, an eternity. But it never stopped.

Voldemort showed no mercy, or compassion, or discomfort at their screams. If only, he showed pure delight. The same delight Harry knew he used to show whenever Dudley would land in trouble. The same delight Harry would show when his uncle had a bad day, or a bug or mouse would surprise his aunt and cause her to scream...

Harry dismissed the thought from his mind, by telling chanting to himself that he was nothing like Voldemort. He would never enjoy another person's pain, no matter who they were. Even if they deserved it.

Harry spent as little time sleeping as he could in his perpetually dull room. He took to sitting on the floor or at the desk, and whenever he started to feel the tale tale signs of sleep, he showered. Anything to keep him up. The voice didn't seem to agree with Harry spending so little time sleeping. It was constantly attempting to soothe his worries and get him to sleep, but Harry would not budge on the issue. It had to force Harry to actually get him to sleep, and even then, Harry did not sleep for long.

That day, he was rereading one of the chosen books when it happened. The burn in his scar accompanied by the shrill laughter he knew all too well – the laughter belonging to Bellatrix Lestrange.

She was standing in the same spot Voldemort had been standing when he had appeared. Her lidded eyes were crazed and her mouth was curved up into a cruel sneer. Harry instinctively reached for his wand, before remembering – he had no wand. He didn't know if it had been snapped, or if someone had managed to salvage it. He hoped for the latter.

"Hello, itty bitty Potter," she sang out, twirling her wand around in her hands. Harry growled, the only thing stopping him from attacking was the lack of magic at his disposal. He hadn't forgotten her laughter as Sirius fell into the veil; dead.

He couldn't forget she was the one to kill him.

"What do you want?" He spat. She laughed at his tone, and tutted.

"You shouldn't speak to your better's like that, Potter, it's rude," her tone was condescending, mocking. She glowered at him for a moment, before her expression turned gleeful again, "I just want to talk." She said.

Harry cursed at her, which earned him a smack on the head and a short _crucio_. When she let the curse end, her cruel face was littered with the look of delight.

"Who killed Sirius Black! Who killed Sirius Black! You did!" She screeched. Furious, Harry lunged for her and hating the fact he believed her. She twirled, shrieking in laughter, to the side when he reached out a hand to grab her, and tutted him.

"Ooh, Potty's got a temper!" She laughed. Harry made another try at her but, again, she evaded his desperate hands.

"Shut up!" Harry yelled. Bellatrix turned her dark lidded eyes on him and sneered.

"I don't like your attitude, Potter. _Crucio!_ " Harry screamed and thrashed but, unlike Voldemort, she was quick to let the curse end. He felt his scar burning, and reached up a hand. Blood came down to meet his eyesight as he lowered it.

"What's wrong, boy, can't handle a little blood?" She asked. " _Segmentum!_ "

Harry felt an immense pain across his chest. Spluttering and coughing up blood, Harry felt his stomach tearing at the action. Above him, Bellatrix was in peals of laughter. He pulled himself after her, hating his weakness over a small dose of pain, but nobody was there. Her laughter still rang out around him, sounding like the hysterical bells of chaos. It taunted, tempted and seduced him, leading him further into the darkness.


	5. Obsession

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **You all have no idea how pissed I am at the moment... my laptop only started connecting to the router on Sunday, but on Monday, I have a day off, and my mother decides to turn everything off so I can't use my new-found internet connection. Well, guess what stopped connecting? Yep, the internet. Anyway, on to the chapter. Which I assume is the reason you're all still here. Unless you like hearing me ramble on, which I could do for hours.**

**Disclaimer: I still seem to have a lack of ownership of the Harry Potter series. It's deeply upsetting.**

 **Crossroads - Obsession**

Harry woke with a start, feeling his heart thudding in a steady and frenzied beat inside his chest, so hard, in fact, he wondered how his rib cage hadn't snapped yet under the pressure. As his eyes blinked open, he noticed with distaste that his vision was blurry and unfocused, the whiteness in the room only slightly overwhelming. There was the shadow of a hazy person sitting at the end of his bed, watching Harry.

"What...?" He mumbled, hands scrambling for his glasses.

"Here," the man said, pushing the familiar cold frames so the tips of Harry's fingers were gently pressed against them. Harry bent his head to slide the glasses on, muttering an embarrassed thanks as he slipped the them on. When he looked up, there was an empty space where the man once sat. Befuddled, he looked down the length of the room he had come to know as the infirmity, wondering for the umpteenth time where they kept the door.

Another night of terror, Harry recalled. Screaming, cursing and questions; endless questions. He could remember Voldemort's fury that night, worse than all the other times, filled with a hatred of Dumbledore he couldn't understand. It was more than his normal hatred, more than the normal cures of the ancient wizard's name. This time, it was obsessive hatred. Insane and unrelenting.

Ginny hadn't appeared that time, and Harry could only fear for her safety. Was no one looking for her? Harry doubted it. He knew Ron would tear apart Malfoy's manor if he even suspected Ginny was being kept there. Nothing would get in his friend's way. He began to wonder if Ginny was just a figure Voldemort conjured to keep him begging... The more he thought about it, the more it made sense. If Ginny had ever been missing, Ron or Hermione or someone would have written to him about it. Harry cursed, feeling stupid for falling in to another of Voldemort's traps.

He remembered Voldemort's tone; angry but quiet. Furious, vile and sick, layered with insanity. He shivered in response, hearing the words echo in his head; _'this will be your end Potter. I will pull you apart, memory at a time, until all you remember is me. I will destroy every image you have,_ _until I am all you see. You will not listen to anything you hear, because the only thing you will hear is_ _me. There_ _will be nothing left to keep you together. And when you fall apart, I'll drag you back to your beloved friends and show them how far you've fallen. Then, finally, I shall rid myself of your continued existence.'_

Harry no longer childishly believed that Voldemort could have any good in him, after that dream. There was simply no way.

 _'He's only scaring you because you let him,'_ the voice said monotonously, after poking through Harry's thoughts. He didn't mind, he found that letting the voice look into his thoughts made it easier to keep a conversation on track, without any explanations.

"Why do you think he keeps coming after me in dreams?" Harry asked curiously, ignoring the voice's earlier comment. He didn't want to fear Voldemort, he knew he shouldn't fear Voldemort... but he did. More than he'd like to think.

 _'It's the best way to get to you,'_ the voice replied moments later. Frowning, he knew that if Voldemort was desperate to get to him, he would have by now. He doubted that there was little stopping Voldemort get what he wanted, when he wanted it.

"What about the ring and diary?" He asked, feeling his curiosity spike. Harry had no doubt that the voice had some slight, if little, insight into Voldemort's obsession. The voice seemed to have an answer for everything.

 _'The diary? It is possible that Voldemort would prefer people not to read his personal diary, you know.'_ Harry thought back, remembering the handsome form of Riddle screaming as Harry plunged the Basilisk fang into the diary. The voice seemed to pick up on Harry's memory, as it hummed in thought.

 _'A cursed diary?'_ It said, Harry was under the impression the voice was speaking to itself. Silently, he agreed. Though the voice's explanation fit, it didn't account for why Lucius Malfoy slipped the diary in with Ginny's other books, or why Voldemort had entrusted his diary to the senior Malfoy in the first place. It must have been something incredibly important for Voldemort to care so much for an object.

He swore, ignoring the voice's disapproval, wishing Dumbledore had told him more about the importance of Tom Riddle's diary. From all he could gather, Voldemort had placed a memory of his young psychotic self in his diary for protection of his secrets. It seemed more like a practical joke that Voldemort would forget about a couple of years later, instead of dwelling in the memory of his joke's whereabouts. The more Harry thought about it, the more he doubted Voldemort – or Tom Riddle – would ever be caught writing their personal feelings in a diary; the thought was simply absurd.

Whatever it was, Harry had to warn Dumbledore. Voldemort's fury was suspicious, and he could see that the diary and ring had some vital importance to Voldemort. If he couldn't warn Dumbledore... no, he needed to let the headmaster know about it. If he couldn't get it through in a letter, he would have to do the only other alternate. Escape.

Pulling out a quill and parchment, Harry began writing furious and quick strokes a short and simple letter to Ron and Hermione, which wouldn't mean anything to the people who read his mail, but would hopefully mean something to his friends. At the end, Harry made note that he needed to speak to Dumbledore directly about the diary from their second year, not daring to elaborate further. When he finished, Harry chucked the note into the empty container, making sure it would be seen easily and not ignored.

He spent the rest of the day occupying himself with mundane tasks – showering, making his bed, and writing out notes, mostly to remember school topics that had interested him or those that considered important enough to help him. The longest time he spent on any was on Defense Against the Dark Arts, his personal favourite. He also spent a quarter of an hour prophesying his own death, simply from some amusement. Some of the ways that he came up with would make even Voldemort cringe.

Dinner came and Harry dug into the meal, feeling more hungry and anxious than he had in a long time. The food tasted bland on his tongue; nothing like the grand Hogwarts meals he should have been enjoying... he swept the thought from his mind, not wanting to dwell on such depressing things. There would be a time, he knew, where the Ministry discovered Voldemort's rebirth and released him. Not even they were dense enough to ignore the deaths and disappearances forever.

When he had cleaned up after his dinner, Harry stacked the two books in the container with the letter and his plate, before making his way to the shower for the second time that day, simply to stall sleep. As much as Harry didn't want to face whatever dreams awaited him, he knew that the next day would be Sunday. The day that letters were to be sent. The day that Dumbledore would find his letter about Voldemort and his unhealthy worries over material possessions. The day where Dumbledore would, for once, inform him about exactly what was happening. He hoped.

Sleep came hard that night, Harry dreading every moment closer to sleep he felt. The anxiousness in his stomach did not waver until in what he believe to the the early hours of the morning, when he finally fell asleep. To his irritation, he found himself pulled back into Voldemort's mind.

" _Hello again Harry, have you missed me?" Voldemort mocked, stepping towards him. Harry sneered in answer, taking in his surroundings. It was his first dream all over again; the high ceiling, the bundle on the floor, the man in the cloak..._

" _What do you want?" Harry asked, his face caught in an unpleasant look between a sneer and glare. His eyes wondered back to the man,_

" _The same thing I always want, Potter." Voldemort's slitted eyes were staring intently, straight into his own. Harry looked away._

" _I don't know," he murmured, getting to his feet. He wouldn't allow Voldemort to see any weakness this time, he promised himself; repeating it like a mantra in his head. Voldemort chuckled._

" _Perhaps you should find out. Poor Ginny can only survive for so long before I tire of her," his eyes glinted again, and Harry stared in disgust._

" _I don't believe you," Harry said, trusting Ron and Hermione's letters that everyone was fine and hoping with all his heart that he wasn't wrong._

 _Voldemort was staring up, towards the ceiling, "You've caught on..." he said softly, more to himself than to Harry._

 _His attention turned back to the man, watching them from under the cloak. As he shifted, Harry caught a glimpse of a pale nose sitting perfectly on the man's face. Something about that lower part of the face seemed familiar to Harry; he just couldn't place from where._

" _Who is that?" Harry asked, staring at the man. Voldemort's lip less mouth twisted into a smirk._

" _Figure it out, boy," Voldemort said, "now onto other matters: crucio!"_

 _Harry fell to the floor, a short scream escaping his lips. The pain was as unbearable as it had always been; hot, torturous... he bit his lip to stop another scream escaping his lips. In the background, he heard Voldemort laughing, before lifting the curse. Harry got to his shaky feet again, spitting out a mouthful of blood._

" _I'll ask you again; where is my ring?" Voldemort hissed, all traces of humour gone._

" _Why don't you go look for it because I HAVE NO BLOODY IDEA!" Harry yelled, humiliated at his earlier weakness. Voldemort tutted in disapproval, casting the Cruciatus again. Again, Harry was twitching on the floor in pain, trying to drown out the sounds of his own piercing screams. When Voldemort ended the curse for the second time, Harry remained on the floor; panting and trying to catch the breath that was so desperate to escape his lungs._

" _You're lucky I'm a busy man, Potter, because I would just love to stay here and torture you until you can't think properly any more," Voldemort murmured, pointing his wand at himself. He looked briefly at the cloaked figure, nodding once or twice, before uttering a soft spell and disappearing in a flash of light._

" _It's just us now, Harry. Don't worry, I'll take good care of you..." the man's soft voice said. He stepped forward, making the dread in Harry's stomach build..._

 _'It's okay now, Harry, you're awake,'_ the voice whispered, pulling Harry out of his dream. Harry shivered, more from the dream than the cold air layering his skin. The voice, sensing his discomfort, sent a wave of heat down his body that made Harry moan and curl his toes in comfort. He lay blissfully for a moment, before a hazy memory entered his mind...

"How do you keep doing that?" Harry asked the voice, recalling the time it had healed the welts on his skin. Before Harry could ask, the voice had sent Harry to sleep. Ever since then, the thought hadn't crossed his mind.

 _'Do what, Harry?'_ It asked apathetically, giving Harry it's full attention.

"Helping me... with magic,"

 _'It was wandless magic. You've probably heard about wandless magic before, even without actually learning it,'_ Harry didn't recall wandless magic ever been mentioned before in any of his lessons, _'I could teach you wandless magic.'_

"What is it, exactly?" Harry asked eventually. He felt a cool chuckle from all around him, before the voice jumped into a discussion.

 _'Magic, except without the assistance of a wand. Every wizard has the potential to do wandless magic, but it is trained out of us when we are children. The ability still remains with us, but takes longer to develop. Wandless magic is, essentially, the same as remembering untrained magic, except focusing it. Though some of the more complicated spells would be too difficult to try without a wand.'_ It said. Harry followed the general idea, though with a lack of understanding about the negatives. If wandless magic was the same as wand magic, he didn't understand why wizards hindered themselves with a wand. As if sensing his thoughts, the voice continued.

' _Wandless magic will tire you out more quickly, due to the fact that wand's are designed to only draw on the smallest amount of magic possible. Most wizards don't bother with wandless magic for that very reason - because it takes up more strength and concentration than the hardest or wand magic. Other than that, wandless magic and wand magic are virtually the same._ It finished, sounding bored.

"Okay… So how do I do it?" Harry asked.

' _The same as normal magic. Most wizards who do perform wandless magic have specific hand gestures to help control the magic.'_

"The words are the same?"

 _'Yes, though I wouldn't recommend trying right now.'_

"Why?" Harry asked.

 _'When you're tired,you're more prone to accidents. I know for a fact that you are exhausted.'_ Harry was about to reply, but at that moment, the thump of books alerted him to the presence of another. Harry jumped up, remembering his letter, and rushed to the front of his room, where the door was located and sounds were coming from. In another moment, the noises stopped and Harry eagerly pulled open the container, shuffling through the parchment, quills and books, looking for the letter.

Which wasn't there.

He tried to ignore the disappointment bubbling in his stomach, but he couldn't help but feel angry and forgotten by his friends. Lacking his earlier energy, he pulled out the books, quills and parchment, dumping it on the desk.

 _'Don't feel disappointed; this just means that the diary and ring are too important to discuss over pre-read mail.'_ It said, picking up on Harry's mood. Harry nodded, silently agreeing though still feeling quite disappointed.

"I suppose..." He said, before a thought struck him, "but there is something you could do to make me feel better." He tried his best to block the question from his mind, so the voice wouldn't decide not to risk it.

 _'Yes?'_ The voice asked after a moment hesitation.

"Who are you?" There something something nagging at the back of his mind, warning him against the voice. After his dream of Voldemort, Harry felt the same familiarity for both the voice and the man. He knew they were connected – somehow.

 _I've dropped plenty of hints already, Harry. Figure it out.'_ ' The voice sounded amused at Harry's plight, as Harry's it felt the boy's emotions take a turn for the worst.

"If only Hermione were here..." Harry murmured to himself, thinking of his friend's unnatural ability to solve puzzles and mysteries. Everything that had happened to date – every issue that Harry faced, ever problem he came across... Hermione had always helped. Hermione would have been able to put a name and face to the voice, if she had known.

 _'It would make no difference. I prefer it this way. Just you and me, Harry,'_ Something sparked within Harry; a memory...

" _It makes no difference. I prefer it this way. Just you and me, Harry." Riddle said softly._

But... that wasn't possible. It was simply not possible. Harry had been sure – Dumbledore had been sure!

"Riddle!" He snarled, jumping to a defense position. The voice – no, Riddle, laughed softly. Harry took notice how the genderless voice had seemed to morph into Riddle's familiar, high and cold one.

 _'You are correct, Harry. I was beginning to think you had forgotten me...'_


	6. Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **It's Monday, Monday (the sad thing? I actually had to edit it. I really should know the date by now)! And on time... my my, what went wrong?**

**Disclaimer: I still seem to have a lack of ownership of the Harry Potter series. It's deeply upsetting.**

 **Chapter six – Predatory**

He concentrated, feeling light shocks travel down his arm from the tingling sensation of magic. As a make-shift wand, Harry pointed his hand towards the sheet of parchment, staring intently at the small sheet. He made sure to line his eyes with his hand and the sheet of parchment, before uttering a loud word. The parchment did not move, but continued to stare sightlessly in Harry's direction.

"Damn!" Harry cursed, mentally ripping the parchment to shreds. It had been an entire week of the same thing – Harry trying to shift the parchment even a fraction at an attempt of wandless magic. It wasn't working, and left him in a sour mood, which became even worse as Riddle tried to offer help. Today was no different.

 _'You have to concentrate harder – imagine the parchment moving! Will it to move! It's a contest of stubbornness, Harry,'_ Riddle said in an upbeat tone. Harry ignored him, knowing that trying to push the voice out of his head would not work, as much as he hated to admit it. It seemed that Riddle was either stuck, or deliberately inhabiting his mind to spy for his counterpart.

Thinking of Voldemort brought on a frown – his nightly visits were becoming worse than usual. Voldemort was angry; furious, and desperate for something that had gone missing, most likely by Dumbledore's doing. Harry tried to ignore the temptation, but the curiosity that plagued him was too much, as it always seemed to be. Not for the first time that week, Harry raised the familiar question in his mind.

"Why is the ring and diary so important?" Harry asked, wetting his lips and waiting uninterestedly for the reply. Riddle chuckled in his mind, probably enjoying the first sign of conversation that hadn't involved Harry telling Riddle to go and do something highly unpleasant.

 _'You talk to me... but only when you want something. Perhaps I have good reason to keep it a secret,'_ Riddle murmured smoothly in his mind, playing out the suspense. Knowing Riddle would most likely reject him did nothing to undermine Harry's anticipation.

"No matter what it is, it can't hurt you. You're a voice in my head – no, I'm not crazy – and you're not Voldemort either," Harry pushed. The voice chuckled again, an annoying habit he seemed to fit appropriate for Harry's comments, arguments and questions. Harry tried to ignore the feeling of mockery in Riddle's voice every time he laughed.

 _'His past, present, future... a voice in a child's mind – it's all the same. I'm still him,'_ he whispered, a hunger in his voice that didn't quite suit the attractive tone. Harry scowled, knowing he wouldn't get anything out of Riddle about Voldemort's obsession. Not for the moment.

He turned back, ignoring the growl of his stomach, and faced the parchment. Concentrating again, Harry pushed his recent conversation with Riddle to the back of his mind, choosing to focus on the still-parchment. Taking Riddle's advice, Harry uttered the word again, imagining the paper moving, willing it to move, wanting it to move more than he had wanted anything out in his life. The parchment merely twitched. He sighed in frustration and turned away.

 _'You need to be more patient. It takes most people a long time to learn magic without a wand – providing you have the ability,'_ Riddle said, while picking through Harry's memories. Harry tried his best to ignore the unwanted memories of cupboards and jealously and loneliness, attempting to block them with the more enjoyable ones of his godfather, his friends and Hogwarts.

"I bet you could do this on the first shot," Harry murmured foully, knowing of Riddle's gifted persona.

 _'Second time, actually,'_ Riddle boasted egotistically, though there was an edge of humour to his quiet tone. Harry scoffed.

"Of course, Mr. Perfect," he joked, momentarily forgetting who it was he was talking too. They both chuckled, something that seemed more familiar and natural to Harry than it should have. With the thought, the laughter died straight in his throat.

Ignoring the parchment, Harry turned to his breakfast sitting on the desk. He hadn't been hungry before due to his intense concentration on attempting wandless magic. Now that his concentration had been broken, and his frustration was reaching new heights, Harry could feel the emptiness of his stomach and lightness of his head. He took a seat at the desk and picked up one of the pieces of bacon. It was cooling quickly, though still tasted relatively nice.

 _'Potter?'_ Riddle asked in the silence. Harry choose to ignore him, as he always did. It would do him no good to listen to the voice of Riddle, for people who listened to him usually ended up dead, hurt or worse.

 _'I think you might actually want to hear this,'_ Riddle tried again, seeing Harry's thoughts. Harry continued to ignore him, taking another bite from his breakfast.

 _'I'll tell you more about the diary and ring,'_ Harry stopped dead in his tracks, mouth open and food slipping from his fork. Riddle's last words spinning in his head... confusion laced his expression, as he considered what Riddle was offering. Information. Helpful information... there must be a catch.

"Why? As you said only a moment ago, you are him, and by telling me, you're going against his wishes," Harry said, not comprehending Riddle's changed attitude.

 _'Of course, I'm not going to tell you anything that would endanger our secret... more about the history of those items,'_ Harry sighed in disappointment, much to Riddle's amusement, but decided that listening to Riddle would probably be best. Perhaps, Riddle would let something important slip. Something Harry could latch onto and use against him, something to send to Dumbledore.

"Fine," he muttered, scowling at the memory of Dumbledore...

 _'I'll tell you about the diary first, seeing how the diary is perhaps the first possession I actually owned...'_ Harry smirked, knowing the young boy Riddle must have lived through the joyless childhood Harry himself at lived. While he hated the similarity of their situations (and the fact a small piece of his mind felt sorry for Riddle), Harry found himself believing that Riddle deserved such a life, after all he had put people through. He ignored the fact that Voldemort hadn't committed those crimes at that age, and that Riddle's life must have created Voldemort in the first place.

 _'My mother left it for me, the matron always said. Before she died, she told them my name and passed on the diary. As I grew up, the diary was all I had to amuse myself. Also knowing it was a connection from my mother... there was a day when two of the other orphans, Dennis Bishop and Amy Benson tried to take it from me...'_ he led off, chuckling darkly. Even in Riddle's attractive voice, the laugh that escaped his non-existent lips would turn heads of even the dimmest witches and wizards. It was purely and utterly mad – the type of laugh that villains strived for, yet never achieved.

 _'It's safe to say that I got my diary back, and they learned a very valuable lesson,'_ he finished, after the laughter had passed. The hair's on the back of Harry's necks were standing, Riddle's tone left an open note that made it all too easy to guess what happened.

"You tortured them?" Harry asked, knowing the answer yet needing confirmation. He knew that however old Riddle had been at the time, he had not even turned eleven... otherwise, the ministry would have known about the use of his magic.

 _'Tortured them? Harry, I traumatised them,' _Riddle said, pride and laughter both evident in his voice.

"You're sick," Harry spat, disgusted at the mixture of Riddle's emotions. How he had ever managed to feel any pity for the boy was beyond him – he now knew, for certain, that Riddle was a monster. Terrible. Dangerous. Out of control. Interesting.

 _'Your morality blinds you to what true greatness actually is,'_ he said, not an ounce of regret or embarrassment in his voice.

"Excuse me for not feeling a need to hurt people for no apparent reason," Harry growled. He heard Riddle hiss in his mind, furious at Harry's lack of understanding.

 _'I will keep your innocence in mind next time I discuss my past,'_ he said in a calm, though strained, voice. Harry scowled ahead of him, wanting to tell Riddle off yet not wanting to stop the conversation. The information about the diary had been a let down. Perhaps with the ring...

"Whatever. Tell me about the ring, then," Harry said, changing topics to suit his purpose. He envisioned Riddle taking a deep breath before continuing.

 _'Very well. Onto Marvolo Gaunt's ring. Marvolo Gaunt was my grandfather, who – don't worry, I didn't kill him – was an overly ambiguous fool with far too much pride,'_ Harry snorted at the similarity between Riddle's description of Marvolo Gaunt and Riddle himself, _'though I never met him... I stole the ring from my uncle, Morfin Gaunt, while he was unconscious.'_

"If you never met your grandfather, then how did you know what he was like?" Harry asked.

 _'I'll show you,'_ Riddle said. The next moment, Harry felt a memory, not of his own, nudging his mind. Confused, Harry let the memories in, only to be sucked into the dark world of Tom Riddle.

 _Morfin Gaunt fell to the floor, a large snore escaping his parted lips. Tom hissed in disgust, before pulling up his sleeves and reach down to his uncle's hand, where a glittering ring lay. He pulled the ring off, with some difficulty, and slipped it into the pocket on his breast, promising himself to wash the ring before slipping it on to his own finger._

 _Again, he stared around the small shack, taking careful notice of the disgusting interior. It sickened him to no end, seeing the poverty the great Slytherin line was reduced too. Grovelling around in their own filth, too inbred to think with intellect, too proud to attend school or seek jobs... he grit his teeth._

 _In the corner of the kitchen, a small cloth caught his eye. Tom walked towards it, noting the faded pink colour, hidden beneath a layer of dirt, mud and... blood? It didn't matter, what caught his eyes were the initials. M.G. Merope Gaunt. His mother._

 _In his stomach, an unnameable feeling was setting. He wouldn't call it longing, or anything of such, more like curiosity. Integrity. Disbelief. His mother had been here. His pathetic, weak mother, who had died and left him in the muggle world. His worthless mother, who had lived in this very house with his worthless uncle... Tom marched back to Morfin, wand drawn in one hand and fingers of his other hand slipping into his coat, pulling out a potion vial. Reaching Morfin, he squatted and put his wand against Morfin's forehead and concentrating. Seeing what he wanted, Tom pulled the memories from his uncle's mind, slipping them into the glass vial. After a second thought, of what, he could not tell, he pulled out Morfin's wand and stared out the window. The Riddle Manor loomed in view. Tom smiled._

Harry felt himself jumping back to reality, slamming uncomfortably back to his own body. His fingers were still clutching invisible items – the two wands and the vial – as if he were still holding them. Riddle, in his mind, was uncharacteristically absent, seemingly lost in his own thoughts, from what Harry could tell. What gave him even greater shock was the fact he could sense Riddle. He could feel the other boy's emotions and thoughts.

"That doesn't explain how you knew what your grandfather was like," Harry said, after recovering from his sudden appearance back to his own body. Questions were running amok in his mind, though he knew he had to tread carefully.

 _'You should have paid more attention. The memories I took from Morfin Gaunt were his memories of my... family,'_ Riddle said, the word hesitant.

"Oh...why did you take his wand?" He asked, wondering how much Riddle would be willing to share of his lonely past.

 _'I didn't. I merely pulled it out to look at,'_ Riddle said calmly. Harry could hear the lie as the words slipped out. Of course, Riddle would never have passed up the opportunity to do forbidden magic with another's wand – so the trace of the spell would not be an issue. Quite easily, Riddle could have literally gotten away with murder.

"Of course... but why show me in the first place? How can it possibly help you by showing me that?" Riddle was quiet for a moment, assessing his answer.

 _'We share a mind, Harry. It would be unfair for me to look through all of your memories without showing you any in return,'_ Riddle lied, for the second time. Harry cursed Riddle's name aloud.

"Without the lies, Riddle. What's the real reason?" He felt as Riddle's mind seemed to shift at the sound of Harry's words. For what, he could not tell.

 _'Very well, I'm amusing myself. As I said, everything I have told you, and the memory I showed you, will not harm me in any way. I'm curious to see what you come up with, knowing the objects aren't of any actual value... though Marvolo's ring could be sold at a decent price,'_ Riddle murmured in his mind, possibly smirking.

"Well... if you won't answer me that, can you answer me something else?" Harry asked, another question forming in his mind. Because it was doubtful Riddle would explain any more about the items, most of Harry's previous questions had been discarded in his mind. There would be a time,. He knew, but now was not that time.

 _'Depends on the question, what do you wish to know?'_

"Why were you there in the first place?" Harry asked curiously, returning to his forgotten meal. Everything Riddle had told him and showed him seemed to weight heavy on Harry's mind, like he was missing something he was supposed to know. Something he was supposed to remember... feeling a headache coming on from the thought, Harry dismissed the thought from his mind in favour of Riddle, who was beginning to speak again.

 _'I was curious to see where it all started,'_ Riddle replied softly. Harry could find no other possible clause, so he settled for Riddle's curious answer.

Harry took a deep breath, readying himself for the next question. "And what happened after?"

Riddle was silent for another moment, recounting the memory.

 _'I watched the memories of my mother, uncle and grandfather,'_ he said softly. Harry stared at the wall in silence, contemplating. Dumbledore had always told him that Tom Riddle was, and always had been, a psychopath. That Riddle never had any interest in _knowing_ his family, but their worth. After seeing Riddle's memory... he let the thought trail off, knowing the more he thought about it, the more he was connecting Riddle to someone who actually lived and loved.

"This doesn't mean I like you, you know," Harry said after a moment, not knowing what else to say. His own thoughts were focused on his mother – the mother Riddle took from him sixteen years before.

A mother Riddle never got to know, either, Harry thought to himself.

Riddle didn't bother him again for the rest of that day. Too far lost in his own thoughts, perhaps, to acknowledge Harry's presence. After an hour of attempting to gain Riddle's attention, Harry surrendered, choosing instead to flick through one of the books. Surprisingly, this book seemed a great deal more interesting than all the others he'd read, and Harry found himself actually concentrating on the words instead of his thoughts. Even that night, when Harry fell asleep, he felt nothing from Riddle.

Though Voldemort was a different story.


	7. Undulation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Title: Crossroads**

**Disclaimer: I still seem to have a lack of ownership of the Harry Potter series. It's deeply upsetting.**

 **Crossroads – Undulation**

" _No! Where has it gone!" Voldemort cried, explosions rocking the cave around him. Chunks of rock rained down heavily, slamming into still waters, creating fountains of water. Beside him, the house elf shook with fear, terrified of her snake-like master and his unexplainable temper. She took a step backwards – a step closer to the unsettled water – to escape the fury which frightened her so easily. Her master noticed her small, desperate step, because his crimson eyes flashed in anger and his slitted nostrils flared._

" _You!" He roared, whipping out his wand until it was pointed at her. She fell to her knees, at the feet of her master, begging and pleading for forgiveness – for mercy, though she knew she had done no wrong. She was a good house elf! Her master was unmoved by the display. He become, if possible, even more furious._

" _Crucio!" He cried, watching her small body shudder in pain at his feet; screaming. Pulling. Clawing at her arms and face. The curse, he knew, was far more powerful than he would usually dish out, though he hadn't felt so angry since... since..._

 _Since Harry Potter._

 _Letting out another roar of rage, he kicked the useless house elf aside, as his body melted into the thick, ashy substance as he spat the incantation of his flying spell. He rose to the air in a moment, flying the water that curled around him in his rage, leaving small tsunami's crashing on the walls of the cave – the shore of the raised platform where the useless house elf resided. Good, he thought to himself, let the stupid creature suffer._

 _As soon as he was out of the cave, Voldemort pulled his wand out and disappeared with a loud crack; the accompanying sound of apparition. What appeared, instead of the dreary coastline, were motionless hills rose sharply in the distance, blocking the vast amounts of sunlight from a low hanging sun. Only small streams were let through the stubborn blockade – landing softly on willows of grass and water and mud. Cold air was clinging tightly to his clothing, the thin material giving way in favour of the icy winds. He shivered, casting a non-verbal heating charm to warm himself. Then, Voldemort jumped off the ledge, body once again turning to a smoky ash, trailing across the dark skies._

 _In his sight, as he trailed over the lowly hills, came the shady figures of ancient houses nestled together tightly. The closer he got, the more distinctive the cluttered houses became – falling down with time and age. The huddled mass of houses was covered by a thick cloud of smog, blown across the village by a near-by muggle industry. He touched down at the outskirts of the village, the smoke and ash disappearing with the swish of his hand._

 _Calmer now, after his flight, he raised thin pale hands lifting the wand to point it at his own face, words murmured softly until a gently tingling sensation ran across his skin – making changes. Drastic changes – the lipless mouth became soft and full, hair broke the skin on his scalp; long and wavy. A nose formed, painfully, where there were slits before. The red-slitted eyes, however, remained the same. Running his hands over his newly formed features, reminiscing about the days he appeared that way, and not as the snake-like man he became, the man sighed._

 _Ignoring the village entirely, Voldemort turned his disguised face towards a lonely path running the course around a hill, vines and webs closing around the entrance. He lifted a slim-fingered hand and muttered a spell. Instantly, the vines and webs were cut away until the path remained accessible. Voldemort started along the path, eyes and magic peeled for signs of any other unfortunate muggle who happened to cross his path._

" _Asgjë atje poshtë për ju," an old muggle man said from behind him. Voldemort turned to meet the muggle, his newly full mouth curled up into a cruel smirk. The man visibly flinched, tired eyes jumping in shock when he met gazes with the young-in-appearance man._

" _Avada Kedavra," he hissed, drawing his wand in an instant. The man's sagging face dropped in shock, his body falling with a heavy thump as the green light flashed. Voldemort stared disinterestedly at the form, though he did nothing to hide the body. He would not be returning to that location again, if all proved to go well._

Harry came to with the most uncomfortable throbbing in the base of his skull – a rough rhythm that beat to the sound of his heart; erratically. In his mind, he could still see Voldemort, young and handsome, picking his way through the uneven slopes and hills, vicious grin etched deeply onto his disguised face, though his anger boiled deep inside.

"Blimey," he muttered to himself, running a shaking hand through the wet hair glued to his burning head. The thin strands were tangled after the duration of tossing and turning in his sleep, knotted tightly together. His hand that had been running through his hair a moment ago stopped to rest on his scorching scar, pain still evident from the open connection with Voldemort.

 _'Go back to sleep, Harry. It's... I don't know, early,'_ Riddle's tired voice slurred from the corner of his sleep deprived mind. Harry, rather unwillingly, could imagine Riddle as the words escaped the his lips: hair tousled from sleep, eyes cracking open, lips parted, expression befuddled. A hesitant, though amused, grin split his face at the amusing image his mind conveyed as Riddle growled in annoyance.

 _'I'm not joking. If you can't sleep, I can't sleep. And if I can't sleep, I get grumpy and make you sleep,'_ his irritated voice called. Harry, however, was too far lost in the memory of his recent dreams to take the threat into consideration. His thoughts were preoccupied with the flash of green from the handsome man to even attempt listening.

"Voldemort's up to something!" He cried, eyes widening as the reality started to completely set into his tired mind.

 _'Good. Why don't you scurry on back into his mind and see what exactly he's doing instead of pestering me,'_ came the reply moments later in a mindless drone. Riddle must have fallen asleep in the period of his silence, Harry absently mused, while he contemplated the dream.

"He killed someone!" He was yelling now, the world was beginning to come too, unchanged and unexceptionably mundane.

 _'Close to death anyway,'_ Riddle said, surrendering on sleep to search through Harry's most recent memories and paying close attention to the details. As the man fell to his sudden death in the memory, Riddle merely hummed in bordered approval. Obviously, the death hadn't bothered him as much as it had bothered Harry.

"Don't you care?" Harry asked, shocked. While he was still slow from the hefty awakening, he unwisely forget the man he was talking to.

 _'No, Harry, I don't. Now seriously, go to sleep. M'tired,'_ Riddle muttered, feeling the sudden pull of sleep again. Harry, though, was beyond enraged at Riddle's attitude, this was a _human life_ they were talking about. Not only that, but Voldemort had deemed something so important that he left Britain. There was something wrong. So very wrong.

"What are you going to do? Read me a bedtime story?" Harry snarled, though Riddle's voice remained unusually silent for a moment; contemplative.

 _'They didn't tell us any bedtime stories in the orphanage... they never really told us anything. Well, anything of actual value,'_ Riddle said quietly. Harry licked his lips, his anger melting, uncomfortable at how their stories seemed so similar in some ways. As much as he hated Riddle's uncaring response to a death, he couldn't remain angry at someone while pitying them.

"I don't know any either. My uncle and aunt think I'm a waste of space, actually. They wouldn't bother themselves with my lack of sleep if it meant they had to do anything," Harry said truthfully, though bitterly, turning onto his side. He imagined Riddle's face looking at him in curiosity, the dark fathomless eyes peering from under a cascade of dark hair, not unlike his own.

 _'Harry Potter... a waste of space... well, I'm proud to say I've never seen eye-to-eye with muggles,'_ Riddle thoughtfully remarked, much to Harry's complete shock and disbelief. Out of all the people to hate him... to call him a waste of space... why not Riddle?

"Well... um... thanks. I think," Harry replied, gobsmacked though thankful.

 _'You're terrible at thanking people,'_ Riddle replied, a teasing note in his voice now. Harry, befuddled, found Riddle's human-like attitude far more attractive than the artificial politeness.

"And you suck at cheering people up!" He laughed, shifting his head on his pillow to a more comfortable, more relaxed position. Hearing Riddle's deep laughs, Harry his eyes drift shut, memories of his dream already fading to the background to be hidden by another memory, more recent and by far more pleasant.

 **-X-**

Dumbledore paced the length of the broken platform with his annoyance on the same level as his concern. The house elf, Dimpy, was being catered to by Severus as the dark-haired man gently probed the elf for information. At first, she had been reluctant to say anything, as house elves usually were, though the more Severus healed her wounds, the more trusting she had become. Dumbledore, however, doubted she would be of much assistance.

"Master was so angry! So angry at Dimpy, but Dimpy didn't do nothing wrong!" She wailed, swollen eyes fresh with tears as she spoke. Dumbledore listened with an open ear while studying their surroundings – calm and peaceful, though he saw the tell-tale signs of uncontrolled rage and destruction in the murky waters below. Bits of rock managed to penetrate the surface of the water in the more shallow areas, leaving gaping holes in the roof of the cave from their once established position. Magic was thick in the air – Dark Magic. He shifted uncomfortably, remembering the feel from his younger years as an energetic Albus practising Dark Magic with his friend and love interest - the sound of Severus' voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

"And what was your master looking for?" The younger man asked, an unusually quiet tone to his voice. Dumbledore turned to watch them with interest, thought he could already guess what his former pupil had been after – the locket which once belonged to his mother.

"Master left it here, in the basin. He made Dimpy drink from a cup – it was terrible! Dimpy hurt!" She whimpered. Although he had already searched the basin, Dumbledore still managed pulled himself up to the basin height, studying the inside. He could see remnants in the hollowed cylinder of the liquid, something Dumbledore did not recognise, though no artefact.

"Are you sure, Dimpy?" He asked politely, dropping to his knees to search the ground for any sign of the golden locket he knew to be here.

"Dimpy sure," she confirmed, bobbing her head in a mock of a nod.

"Ah... Severus, may I borrow you a moment?" He said, returning to his usual height with a groan as the ancient muscles clicked. Severus nodded, pulling himself to his own feet before treading up the deeply uneven slopes of the platform to stand by his colleagues side.

"Do you recognise this particular potion?" Dumbledore asked, using a shell to carry the clear liquid up. Severus leaned close, studying the substance.

"If memory serves, then this potion is one of the Dark Lord's own inventions," he remarked after a moment. Dumbledore nodded, tipping the substance back into the basin. He cast a pitying look to the poor house elf, sitting by herself, regretting how Tom had forced her to drain the potion.

"I see... it appears Tom didn't find what he was looking for. No doubt he will become suspicious and blame myself for the removal of it. Hm..." He trailed off, deep in thought. Unbeknownst to Harry, Dumbledore had received the letter, asking about Tom Riddle's diary. While it deeply unnerved him, Dumbledore had been more worried for his young champion's safety. If Tom had discovered the absence of his horcrux's and contacted Harry... then he had discovered their connection. He had chosen not to write back – for Harry's sake.

"What, exactly, are we after?" Severus droned, glancing around the dim cave. Dumbledore sighed, knowing that now would have to be the time to tell his young spy. If he didn't, he feared he would lose Severus' help in the matter, which could come to grave consequences.

"Something very precious to Tom – the way Tom retains his immortality, in fact," Dumbledore said. Severus nodded, finally realising the importance of their trip. "Something called a horcrux," he finished.

"It appears as though someone else knows about them too," he pointed out, motioning to the house elf. Dumbledore sighed for the second time, shaking his his head in regret.

"I had guessed that. Unfortunately, that makes our job far more difficult. Without the horcrux, we don't know whether Tom is mortal or not. And now Tom knows about activities, he will most likely move the rest," he said, also staring at the house elf.

"There's more than one?" Came Severus' shocked reply.

"Yes... I've counted seven so far. Two have been destroyed and three are in unknown locations. The sixth is currently with Voldemort, to my understanding," he said, thinking of the large snake Voldemort seemed in favour of.

"And the seventh?" Dumbledore turned saddened eyes on Severus.

"The seventh is... in our possession, though the seventh will have to be destroyed last,"

 **-X-**

 _'This is actually becoming rather pathetic...'_ Riddle commented as Harry attempted to move the parchment for the umpteenth time that day, without success. In reply, Harry growled menacingly in the back of his throat, feeling closer to moving the parchment than he had in a long time. Riddle, however, didn't seemed convinced.

 _'It's not working,'_ he commented dryly. Harry let out a huff of air, dropping his arms to his side in surrender, knowing Riddle had a point. It _wasn't_ working.

"That's why I keep trying," he snapped, earning a chuckle.

 _'Have you even figured out what wards are placed around the little prison to keep you in?'_ Riddle asked, wondering himself. It could have been anything from an alert system to something far more sinister – something bordering on Dark Magic.

"I've thought about it... how do I sense wards?" Riddle chuckled at his response, amused at the young boy's lack of knowledge on magic. Perhaps, depending on how long Harry remained trapped, Tom would end up teaching the child more about magic than five years of Hogwarts had.

 _'You have to feel it with your magical signature. Every spell leaves a different kind of trace – like footprints, for instance – that when you feel, you can recognise the spell used. Wards are much easier to sense than distinctive spells because they usually cover a much larger area, using much more magic to keep them in place. Finding wards is basically reaching out with your magical core to feel the air around you, and detect any traces of magic,'_ he lectured, most likely reciting from a textbook. Harry nodded, though, understanding Riddle's explanation.

"Right... so how do I do that?" He asked, slouching over to the bed from his position opposing the desk.

 _'Merlin! In the five years you went to Hogwarts, did you manage to learn anything at all from those teachers?'_ Riddle cried, unhelpful in his answer.

"Not everyone's a sponge, Riddle," he teased, ignoring the scoff in his mind.

 _'Apparently not... and they expect you to defeat me,'_ Riddle began quietly, _'it's similar to wandless magic, though more like a sensor. When you detect wards, imagine your magic like a ripple, yet in only one direction – it'll change when it encounters another object, magic, in this case,'_ he finished.

"Oh. Okay, I think I get it. Actually, on second thoughts, you know this stuff, don't you?" He asked, suddenly changing ideas.

 _'Yes. You want to see my memory?'_ Harry nodded, and in only a short moment after, he felt himself falling backwards, his white cell blending in with the colours of the past, spinning together until the world around him disappeared in a violent flash of pain and colours.


	8. Distrust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **I'm going to the midnight session of Harry Potter tomorrow... can't wait. It shall be more epic than that time I – er... anyway, for this chapter, I've made it 3380 words for a reason. And that reason being? Well, I have officially, after posting this chapter, reached 50,000 words! Yay for my lack of life (and the fact that I tend to ramble a lot about things that really don't seem matter to anyone excluding myself).**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter, as much as I would like to. I do not own Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort, as much as I would like to. And I certainly do not own any other character that appears, as much as I would like to. Because apparently, owning a person is wrong and the police refuse to tolerate it. Spoil sports.**

 **Chapter eight - Distrust**

It was another week before Harry managed to progress on his attempts at wandless magic. Under Riddle's careful, if smothering, watch, Harry was beginning to grasp the concepts of using magic without a wand, using previous memories to help release the magic. Memories as a child, when he felt frightened, angry or sad. He found that, when drawing on those emotions and memories, he was able to draw on his surging magic in an unmanageable, though existent, force. With that magic in his grasp, Harry was finally able to float the parchment around the room at a low aptitude. To Riddle, is was barely an improvement, but to Harry, it seemed like he had just overcome an amazing feat – it was the same feeling as the day in his fourth year after he had completed the first task; he felt invincible. Amazing. Incredible. Unreal.

It didn't change Riddle's attitude in the slightest, though. The more desperate he became to learn wandless magic and escape, the more Riddle encouraged him to work – the more he pushed him. What had started out a levitating a sheet of parchment had turned into levitating books, cups, plates and anything else Harry managed to get his hands on; even to the point where Riddle suggested he levitate the bed, once he managed to detach it from the floor. Harry had readily disagreed, suggesting they start trying other spells now that he had succeeded in his attempts at wandless. Riddle had been quick to find the flaws.

 _'You see, Harry, it's not about finding spells you can do with wandless, it's about finding spells you can use without something to practice on,' _Riddle argued, trying to sway Harry on his new idea.

"I'm going to need to learn these spells anyway, if I want to escape. They're not just going to let me walk out," he tried, "what would you suggest I do instead? Ask them nicely?"

 _'With some persuasive wandless magic, it might actually work,'_ he said, ignoring Harry's cry of shock.

"I'm not going to curse someone! I want them to see I'm not a dark wizard like they seem to think!" Harry truthfully cried. Riddle was unabashed, as though using a wandless _imperio_ meant nothing to him. In some ways, Harry believed that to be the case. Riddle was still Voldemort. Just more slightly pleasant and less blood thirsty.

 _'You're the one who wants to escape. As for me, I'm stuck inside your mind for longer than I'd care to imagine. I gain nothing from this, if only more amusement,'_ Riddle sighed, ignoring, Harry's annoyed, though childish, response.

 _'That's not a pleasant thing to call someone, and perhaps you could let that Slytherin side of you show. Sneak up on some moronic, unsuspecting wizard and steal his wand when he's not looking if you refuse to use an actual helpful spell. Much easier than relying on wandless magic to escape when there's potentially a full work-body of trained wizards you're going up again,'_ he replied shortly after. Harry considered his idea, not liking having to steal from someone, yet seeing the sense. If, however, he could find his own wand to use... a sudden thought hit Harry – something that had been plaguing his mind each time he thought of magic.

"Do you think they have my wand somewhere?" He asked surrendering. He wouldn't drop the subject, of course. Knowing a wandless _stupefy_ and _expelliarmus_ would definitely come in handy.

 _'Unlikely. However... if that old coot believes you are the chosen one, there is a chance he has your wand,' _Riddle murmured sourly, the thought of his ex-professor leaving a foul sense in his mind. Harry could feel Riddle's sudden anger at the man – so similar to his own, yet so different.

So Harry's wand was out of question. He suspected it, actually. If his wand hadn't been snapped – he ignored the feeling of loss – then Dumbledore had managed to salvage it, and most likely kept it waiting. If not, there was a chance that one of the Order members managed to take it. He hoped, he truly hoped, that it was the latter – residing with either Dumbledore or an Order member. Something about the lack of wand made him feel naked and uncomfortable. Unnatural.

But... it would mean he had to steal a wand and, even though these people had opted in his punishment, he still couldn't shake the guilty feeling that he was about to do something terrible. His own wand had been taken, it's fate unknown, and that was enough to send a feeling of loss throughout Harry. And to think he was going to do the same to another – it just didn't sit well. Especially if these people were only doing their jobs.

 _'All we have to do is hope that whatever wand you manage to steal will be a wand that works for you,'_ Riddle said suddenly, tearing Harry from his thoughts. Confused, though slightly understanding, Harry wondered why it would matter. He knew that whatever wand he managed to take – if he managed to take one, that is – would not be as strong as his own, Holly wand, yet it would still be able to channel his magic.

 _'When Ollivander told you that 'the wand chooses the wizard', which by no doubt, he did, he meant that the wand you leave with will be the one that work's best for you. Think of all the other wands you tried that day – using one like that would weaken your magic,'_ he elaborated, sensing his confusion. Harry did remember that time in Diagon Alley, as Ollivander would hand him the wands, yet none, until the holly one, would produce any sparks.

"Oh. And if it doesn't work?" Harry asked grinning slyly, feeling a victory coming on.

 _'Let's not think about that just yet. I suppose, you would know wandless magic... oh, whatever, I'll teach you those wandless spells,'_ he sighed, ignoring Harry's laugh of victory.

"Excellent, let's start with _expelliarmus_ ," he teased, much to Riddle's annoyance.

 _'One problem. How do you plan to practice a wandless expelliarmus spell when you have nothing to practice on?'_

He didn't know. Looking around his room... or cell, as it had come to be, little had changed. The desk, the bed and the chair were all connected to the floor – no doubt by magic – rendering them impossible to use. If, perhaps, he could find a perch for a quill to use as a make shift wand, it might work, but without that perch it would be virtually useless.

"Oh..." Harry said, disappointed. He sunk onto the bed, which dipped as his weight rested on it, depressed. Riddle was silent, thought Harry couldn't feel the awkwardness and uncertainty radiating from the other mind. He chose to ignore the feeling, still attempting to remember anything – anything at all, that he could use.

 _'There is... something I can do,'_ Riddle said hesitantly, his voice light and weary. It did nothing to inspire confidence in Harry's own mind, though he assumed he should hear the other out.

"Yeah?" He asked, waiting patiently as Riddle seemed to think once again.

 _'I could... take over for a short time – transfigure something for you to practice on,'_ his cautiously said.

"No," came Harry's immediate reply, with as little as a thought to it. He knew what Riddle was capable of – and he knew what Riddle would do when possessing Harry's body. The stories that Ginny had told him about Tom after the Chamber of Secrets was enough to inspire instant distrust in Tom's objectives. Who knew? Harry was completely certain of Riddle's talents in magic – Riddle could, very well, use his body to betray his friends to Voldemort. If not that, than Riddle could easily begin to kill people until Harry was in the only place worse than his current location – Azkaban. And Harry wouldn't put it past him to try.

 _'You need to start trusting me, Harry. If I had wanted to, I could have spilled all your secrets to Voldemort by now,' _Riddle sneered, _'but I haven't, and that should show for something.'_

"So when I completely trust you, you're turn me over to Voldemort?" Harry snapped back.

 _'You underestimate me. If I had wanted to do that, then I would have done it by now,'_ he hissed. Harry, however, was beyond reason. He just felt so _angry_ , like he could never feel anything, other than anger, again in his life. He ignored the burn in his scar – one Voldemort was enough to deal with at any given time.

"You want me for something, Riddle, don't pretend otherwise, so I'll warn you now, if you hurt _any_ of my friends, I will kill you," Harry growled, his voice dangerously low. And he wasn't lying – Riddle knew it too. He was angry enough that, if anything managed to harm his friends, Harry would make sure Riddle paid.

 _'If I had wanted to hurt anyone, I would have done so by now! I could kill you, Potter, there is nothing stopping me!"_ His declaration not stopping anything, let alone Harry's fury, Harry replied with just as much, if not more, venom.

"Oh yeah? With what body?" He taunted bitterly. Suddenly, Harry's scar was on _fire_. A searing pain – millions upon millions of shards jabbing into the cut skin, all at once. Harry was screaming in pain, his vision blurry, blood leaking from his scar in a small stream...

Calloused hands were pulling at his own, dragging him up until Harry was standing. Cracking his eyes open, they widened in horror as familiar eyes looked back.

"This body," he said, softly now, staring intently back. His dark eyes scanned Harry's green ones and Harry felt as though his was under a microscope, being so thoroughly examined. He swallowed, his mouth feeling suddenly dry. Riddle was smirking cruelly, though Harry could see the faintest expressions of pain.

"How..." Harry wet his lips, "How did you manage to do that?" He asked eventually. He watched Riddle with the same curious fascination, his anger melting somewhere in the background as Riddle's soft, though human, voice replied ' magic'. Riddle's pale complexion was becoming increasingly paler – like he was simply fading into the background. Though his heart was beating erratically, Harry reached out to touch him.

The image of Riddle shattered.

 **-X-**

Tom did not return to Harry's mind, no matter how much he wished to. This would be his first time out of Harry's mind in his fifteen years of existence, and the atmosphere of the situation did nothing to comfort his nerves. There was an uncomfortable tug on the edge of his conscious, trying to pull him back to his place in Harry's mind, though he did not give in. The pain, in the end, would be worth it. He felt that it would do not good to return - Harry would not welcome him back with open arms and it would be best if he just left until the information had time to sink in, along with the discomfort of losing a part of himself.

Though what he couldn't deny was the feeling of satisfaction his corporal visit had left him with. Harry's unwavering anger was not the emotion he would have chosen to use in order to create that body. No, his irrational decision was a stupid one at that. He just hoped Harry had enough trust not to block him in the future. He was, however, pleasantly surprised – he didn't think he would be able to control himself if Harry had actually _hit_ him, nor could he have guaranteed not hurting the boy later as punishment. Hurting Harry would not bring him closer, of course.

And so, as he slipped further into Voldemort's - his – mind, he tried to ignore the difference between the two minds. In his mind, things felt darker, slower, more hazy and just plain _wrong_. In Harry's mind, everything just seemed more. No matter how many bad things the kid had lived through, it didn't effect his view on life. Everything in Harry's mind was colourful; bright, _amazing_.

Looking out from Voldemort's eyes, Tom was surprised to see a man, his nose large and looked and his hair a greasy black. From foreign memories, Tom was able to make out the character as one of his spies, Severus Snape, a tremble running throughout his body.

"Any news, Severus?" Voldemort hissed slowly, dragging out the sounds. He had his point pointed at Severus, between the eyes, and was beginning to mutter a spell Tom only knew too well.

Tom began to murmur a spell of his own; one he had just used before with Harry. The words were hissed out not in English, but in Parseltongue, and as the spell came to a close, Tom navigated his way through Voldemort's mind until he found what he was looking for – emotion. Enough emotion to draw from that would create a corporal form – Tom lapped at it, appearing beside Voldemort a moment later, his corporal form much stronger than before with Harry. Then again, Harry's anger had only just been strong enough to project himself into a full body.

With an amused smirk at Severus' horrified face, he pulled up the hood of a dark cloak.

 **-X-**

Harry remained planted where he was, hand outstretched, expression dazed. Riddle had just been there – standing in front of him, the moment before. He could even feel the bruise on his arm beginning to form!

And yet... it seemed that Riddle had disappeared. Completely disappeared, that is. He could no longer feel the familiar touch of Riddle's mind on his own – the cool supervision he used to provide, or anything. Riddle was simply... gone.

"Riddle?" Harry called out meekly, feeling uncomfortable at the lack of the other's presence. The room was silent around him, looking more deathly white than it ever had, the silence more unbearable than it had ever been...

He suddenly gasped, clutching his head, fearful and confused. He had never felt so bare – so _naked –_ in his entire life. It was like a part of _him_ had been stripped away, until he was thrown into a room for all the world to see. Curling up on the bed, he tugged his glasses off and mindlessly threw them to the floor – too far gone to hear the thud they made on the ground with little care of their condition. Riddle's face was still in the bright of his mind; handsome, thought not the handsome of his youth, smiling, though his grin was malicious, his eyes shinning, even through the blood colour. And simply there. Alive. Breathing.

Harry's own breathing was slowing down now, not entirely against his will, as his eyes began to shift shut. That night, he fell asleep with a frown on his face, thoughts of Riddle still lingering in his mind.

" _Severus... show me your mind," Voldemort asked quietly, staring down at Harry's former potions professor. Snape had his eyes glued to the ground, no doubt wanting to hide from the twisted, snake-like creature he serves so unwillingly, and Harry couldn't blame him. There was something about Voldemort's air that sent shivers down his spine and his mind reeling with fear._

 _Ignoring the pain in his scar, Harry looked around, noticing he was not the only one watching. From a distance, on the other side of Voldemort, was the man in the dark cloak he had encountered on a number of occasions, all dream-related. The man, however, was not looking at Harry – he was staring back at Voldemort and Snape with unmissable interest. Coping his example, Harry turned back to the scene before him, and was greeted with the sight of Voldemort's pale hand reaching out to Snape's face, tilting it up until they were locked, eye to eye._

" _You will obey me, Severus," hissed Voldemort, "or else."_

" _Yes, my Lord," Severus replied, hands clenched at his side. Voldemort smiled from above him, the skin stretching over the bone in an unattractive manor until Harry was looking away, disgust written on his face._

" _Legilimens!" He suddenly cried, pointing his wand at the pale-faced Snape, though Harry was perfectly sure he didn't need a wand. After hearing Riddle talk about the wandless imperio, it would not surprise him if Voldemort could cast a wandless, non-verbal legilimens (then again, his only experience with the legilimens spell was the brief time of his fifth year, as Snape prepared him to ward off Voldemort's attacks). He supposed the reptilian man did it for an effect of fear, which seemed to work. Snape was taunt with rage and fear._

 _Everything stopped in a tense silence – all eyes were on Voldemort as the expression twisted from anger, to rage, to fury, to... Voldemort cried out with his unsurpassed rage, the room exploding from his anger, in sync with the stab of pain in his scar. Harry fell to the floor, clutching the painful skin, not noticing as the world disappeared from around him._


End file.
